Buffy was silent as Angel pulled the rolling doors of the bedroom closed. She perched on the edge of his bed. She turned her head and her eyes widened at the twisted sheets and beaten pillows, but she only turned her head away carefully and looked at him wearily. "This . . . this can't be the right time to talk about . . . what I want to talk about," she said at last. "I . . . Cordelia . . ."

He knew exactly what she meant. She was wondering if it was selfish to demand to know why he hadn't wanted to remain human. She was wondering if she was an awful person, because the first thing that had leapt to her mind when he'd said he'd been given life again hadn't been to wonder where he was going with that, hadn't been to wonder what strange thing was going on that had caused the death of her high school class-mate. Her first thought had been to wonder why hadn't he stayed human so that they could be together.

Angel didn't blame her, considering his first thoughts when he'd realized what the Mohra had given him had not been how much of Los Angeles would suffer, now, without his protection, or even how could he protect Buffy, now that he was only mortal. His first thought had been to wonder whether Buffy would taste better this way. The thought had been spurred by mortal hunger, but still, all the next thoughts had been about being with her and moving back to Sunnydale and marrying her and being a father and making love to her over and over and over again. Only after a long string of those thoughts did his hunger hit him again, the pangs so intense and unfamiliar that he still didn't realize what they were, and then the thought of sunlight made him forget to wonder.

Angel closed his eyes briefly, and then opened them again. "It's all right," he said. "Ask."

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

The catch in her voice almost broke him. All of this that had happened this morning, and this was going to be the thing that made her cry. It figured she would break down just when he could stand it the least. "No," he said at last.

"You know," Buffy said, looking away. "It's a good thing I didn't fantasize about you becoming human about ten zillion times, because finding out it happened and you weren't even going to tell me about it would've been a real let down."

"You said that. Before," he clarified.

"I . . . Oh God," she breathed. "You didn't even tell me . . . Then?"

"No," Angel said hastily. At the expression on her face, he rushed on, "I mean, yes. I did tell you that'd I'd become human. You said that about—about . . ." She'd said that about the human-him fantasies when he actually had been human, and now, just as then, it sent his mind zooming in channels it shouldn't be in. Fantasies; she'd fantasized about him human; when had she done that; was it as often as he had; was it every night, every waking moment, the way he had dreamed about being with her?

"I know when I said it," Buffy said suddenly, realization in her voice. "I said it after you turned human and told me that . . . that even though you were human, you still didn't want to . . ." Her voice was breaking as she finished her thought. "You didn't want to be with me." Seeing what she took for confirmation in his eyes, her mouth fell open, and she pulled up her hand to cover it. He knew she was stifling a sob. After several moments she took her hand away, sucking in deep breaths. "I'm right, aren't I?"

Angel looked at her, misery and anger tugging equally in his face. "I would never say I don't want to be with you, Buffy," he said at last.

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you," she snapped, sudden tears springing to her eyes. "Because that's exactly what I remember you saying when you—when you didn't want to be with me any more."

"What I said was—"

She waved her hand. "I know. I'm not . . ." She turned away, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes and taking deep breaths. "I didn't mean to bring that up. It's just . . .You decided on the mature plan, didn't you? About you being human. I know you, always with the maturity. You wanted to be sure you were alive—for good. And you—you didn't want to mess things up in my life, either, is that it? What did you decide? That I'd go home? That you'd call me? I'd call you?"

Now was the moment he had been dreading. He could tell her that they'd decided that, but that neither of them had ever been very mature when it came to each other, had they, and the second she'd touched him he'd gone off at her like a loose cannon, like a teenager touching his first woman, unable to turn off his lust for her despite the fact that it was so much more than lust, despite the fact that he loved her and only wanted to live to make the world a more perfect place for her.

He could tell her that, but Angel remembered this morning, remembered remembering what hadn't happened, how it had tortured him so much more than it would have could he have blissfully forgetten all the ways his body seemed made for hers, all the ways his soul sometimes thought that perfect happiness be damned, it just wouldn't stay attatched to this carcass and this demon if he couldn't be with her. Angel could spare her that pain, and he would. Buffy didn't need to deal with the knowledge of the happiness they were never meant to share on top of Cordelia's death. And so he answered her, in the only way he knew how, his voice flat. "Yeah," he said. "Something like that."

Buffy was shaking her head, still taking deep, rasping breaths. "I can't believe I'd agree to that. That we'd . . ." Her voice caught as a single tear trickled down her cheek. "I felt your heart beat," she whispered.

Angel took a step away from her, turned away, and closed his eyes. "You said that, too."

"Did I?" she demanded, sudden and hot anger in her voice. "And was it in past tense then, too, Angel? Because somehow I doubt you discussed the whole unturning human thing with me, either, because I never would've agreed to it."

"The Mohra demon said the End of Days was coming," Angel explained. "The Powers That Be . . . said that you would die sooner without . . . a warrior—without me—to protect you."

"Of course," Buffy said, almost sarcastically. "You did it for me. It's always what's best for me. Did it ever occur to you that what's best for me is you?"

"Yes, it did," he told her, turning to face her. "But how can we be together if the cost is your life?" He paused, knowing what he said next would drive it home, because it had done so last time. He added it gently. "Or the lives of others?"

At last, Buffy began to cry. "I can't . . ." she mumbled through her tears. "I can't believe she's dead. Everything just seems so . . . wrong." She looked up at him through her tear filled eyes, so like she had that other day, the day she'd forgotten . . .

I'll never forget . . .

"Angel," she said, her voice a simple plea.

He knew exactly what she wanted without her asking—but how could he hold her when the rest of him was screaming for comfort, too? When holding her now would only remind him of holding her in that last, beautiful, bittersweet minute they'd had together, his heart beating in sync with hers? When all that they had built of their own lives in these past few months they'd been separated could come crashing apart with only the simple brush of her hand against his?

Stiffly, Angel stepped toward her, and gathered her up in his arms. He held her as she cried, for them, for their lost day, for Cordelia, and for all the tears he himself could not shed.

By the time Giles, Willow, and Xander arrived, Doyle, Buffy, and Angel had taken apart most of Angel's book shelves in order to research time folding, day swallowing, day repeating, and "general day suckage" (as Buffy put it), but hadn't had much luck. It didn't help that as intent as each of them tried, in their own way, to be, they were finding it hard to focus. When Buffy slammed yet another tome down on Angel's table, Doyle spoke for them all when he put his head in his hands and said lowly, "I think I want to go kill something."

Buffy hadn't told her Sunnydale friends what had happened, only that Cordelia had had a an accident and that she needed their help. It was Angel who told them, and Willow who cried. She hadn't been Cordelia's friend either, but the shock was overwhelming, and Cordelia had helped them over the years, even saved their lives once or twice. She had been a part of their group. Giles swallowed hard and looked haggard, older than his years. Angel knew exactly what he was feeling. Cordelia had been young, under his care—his responsibility. She had been Angel's responsibility, too. The difference was she had also been Angel's friend.

Xander's was the reaction that surprised him. The boy's eyes flickered, his mouth tightening. He looked away, and Angel saw a movement out of the corner of his eyes that the demon, highly amused, informed him was the boy's hand coming to his eyes. But when Xander turned back to the group, his face was set. When he spoke, his voice was hard. "What are we going to do?" he demanded.

That was all. No display of anguish or suffering. Angelus was disappointed. The demon would have even settled for the boy turning on Angel and blaming the soul, taking it out on him and insulting him, as was his habit. The demon was always entertained by the teenager's jealousy, his irrational and immature hatred, his incompetent posturing against an older, stronger man—but what Angel's darker half enjoyed most was that the boy somehow always succeeded in striking a nerve. That his soul could be jealous or made insecure by what the demon saw as a snivelling, unseasoned adolescent tickled the soulless part of him immensely.

But if Xander blamed Angel, he wasn't letting it show. Instead, he seemed determined to use his grief to make this right, to . . . go on fighting. Like Buffy. Angel knew Xander had merits, or else he wouldn't have been Buffy's friend. And even though the vampire had never liked the boy, he'd even developed a grudging respect for him. Right now, however, Angel felt positive warmth for the kid. If this was the man who was going to be fighting beside Buffy in Sunnydale, Angel could have at least one less qualm about having left.

It took a while to explain to Buffy's friends about the time folding. He let Buffy handle it, since Buffy told him he'd been wrong to start with "the shirt part." He hadn't known how else to tell it. It was all so . . .

"Weird," Willow concluded, shaking her head, sniffling.

Angel was focussed on the issue at hand, but even as Willow spoke he glanced at her and noticed absently she was in quiet despair. Her eyes held another loss, other than Cordelia; she had already been suffering before she had learned the news. Perhaps it was not significant to the events of this morning, but that what had happened should hurt his lover's friend—and a woman who had trusted him—when she was already in pain seemed just another weight on his soul, another twist of guilt, another cross to bear. One day those crosses would burn him alive.

But not yet. Not today. Buffy wouldn't have allowed it.

"The Powers That Be don't live in our reality," Doyle was saying, in response to something Giles had asked. "You have to approach Them through channels. Dangerous channels."

"But Angel approached Them," Giles said.

Doyle shrugged. "I guess I showed him—'cept I don't remember."

"Where are these—channels?"

"Under the post office." At Giles' expression, Doyle looked defensive. "Hey, I don't know, man. It makes sense when you think about it."

"Actually," Willow said quietly, "it kinda does."

"But you spoke to them," Giles went on, turning to Angel.

Angel nodded. "First, I told them to turn back the day I turned human. And they did. Then, I asked them to turn back today, for . . . for Cordelia. But they wouldn't."

"This is . . . unheard of," Giles said. He turned to Angel and said, "Tell me everything about these . . . Oracles. From your first meeting with them through to today."

Angel nodded, and proceeded to relate his first trip, which he hadn't actually told anyone about yet. The trip had been to assure that he really was human and that he would stay that way. Buffy looked at him quickly at this, but Angel avoided her eyes. Then he told them about asking to be changed back, made inhuman again, and how the Oracles had told him the Powers could swallow the day. Then he told them about asking that They do it again to save Cordelia, and how the Oracles hadn't even seemed to know what he was talking about.

"Maybe you need a better present," Xander said suddenly into the silence, after Angel had finished. "I mean come on, a wrist watch for the Powers That Be? I have one of those. And a vase? I could get that at a garage sale." He wasn't joking. His voice was tense, hard. A blade.

"Isn't there anything we could do to persuade them?" Willow said hopefully.

Giles shook his head. "The Powers That Be so rarely interfere in the lives of lower beings that I'm even having trouble believing that They did swallow the day in the first place. That They would do it again just to prevent an accident is . . . stretching it."

"What're you saying?" Xander said slowly.

"Well," Giles said, removing his glasses, "not to—to . . . presume . . . But what if the problem is Angel?"

"What?" Buffy demanded.

Giles sighed and took out a hand-kerchief to wipe his lenses. "Buffy, I . . ." His gaze flicked over to Angel and his lips pursed. "I trust Angel as much as the next . . ." He faltered as he realized that half of the people in the room probably didn't really trust Angel all that much. He sighed and looked directly at Angel. "I believe you believe that what you say is true. But . . . I have heard of—false memories. Supposedly, there are monks who can . . ."

"You're saying it didn't really happen?" Angel said tightly. "That I just dreamed the part about becoming human? That I didn't see the Oracles at all?"

"That's not what I'm saying," Giles replied. "I'm saying someone could have implanted these memories."

"But why?" Willow asked.

"I don't know," Giles said, shoving his glasses back on his nose. "I just know that it seems implausible that the Powers That Be twisted the whole fabric of reality in order to make a day repeat itself—twice. It seems more likely that Angel himself is the problem."

"Stop saying Angel is the—" Buffy began, her tone sharp.

"Maybe I am," Angel said slowly. "The Oracles . . . they said . . . They said I was delusional."

"Yeah," Xander agreed. "Maybe when they were acting like they didn't fold time they were acting like that because they really didn't." Xander turned to Angel, face half a sneer. "Maybe you've just gone loopy."

The rest of them looked at each other uncertainly. Doyle was looking away, his eyes on the books spread out on the table. "It's still not going to bring Cordelia back," he said wearily.

"But maybe we can try," Willow said suddenly. Everyone looked at her, and she looked back, giving a nervous sniffle. "Well, even if Angel is mad as a march hare, there's got to be a reason for it. Maybe his mind holds the key." When everyone still just looked at her, she rolled her reddened eyes and stated the obvious. "Maybe the day really can be swallowed, and we just have to find out how."

"Right," Buffy announced. "I think some of us should research monk stuff. False memories. See if there really is anything wrong with Angel. Another group should keep researching the time folding and looping day stuff."

"Shouldn't we find out more about this demon?" Doyle asked.

"He said something about the End of Days," Angel said. "It sounded bad."

"The End of Days?" Giles asked, sounding worried. "Really?"

"We can deal with that later," Buffy said decisively. "Right now, I've got a visit to make. Angel, you're with me. Willow and Xander, you're on the monks. Doyle and Giles, the time stuff."

"Where are you going?" Willow asked.

"To visit the Powers That Be."

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