"It's not going to work," Buffy said finally, defeat creeping into her voice.

Angel refrained from saying, "I told you so"—though he had. He had warned her before they'd left his apartment, but she had been determined. The walk through the sewers to the post office and been silent and tense. When they'd gotten to the Gateway, Angel had put the herbs he'd brought in the urn, repeated Doyle's words from the day that was swallowed, and set the contents of the urn on fire.

And nothing had happened. They had tried everything; Buffy had even made him leave the cave, guessing that maybe the Oracles were angry with him and didn't want to see him again. Nothing had worked.

"Do they know who we are before we get in?" Buffy asked. "Because maybe it really is you. Maybe you need to be farther away when I do the beseechy thing." She was grasping at straws, and her face was lighting up like it did whenever she was about to suggest something ridiculous. "Oh! Maybe they think you're going to try a cagey throw-your-purse-in-the-door-to-hold-it-open spy thing, like you'll sneak in behind me or something."

"I don't have a purse," Angel said evenly, "and there's not a door. Just . . . light."

Buffy played with the fabric of her sleeves. She had changed from the skirt into the outfit she'd worn to hunt the demon on the day that wasn't, and he desperately wished she hadn't. He remembered ripping those clothes off of her, remembered tasting her underneath. Acting like it never happened when so many things in this day were so much the same was torture. Worse still, the thing that kept him in check was the one big contrast that made this day different from the last: his friend had died today, and it was his fault.

At last, she looked up at him, looking like a petulant child. "But you got in earlier today," she said, her voice almost a whine.

"Maybe I did because they didn't already know what I was going to ask."

"Yeah, but . . ." She stuck out her lower lip. "They just don't have the balls to face to me."

He knew her pouty display was an attempt to act normally to keep from falling apart. It acknowledged that he had been right in saying going to the Oracles would do no good, and it was also an admission that she had expected to prove him wrong, to make make the Oracles do what she wanted merely because it was her, because sometimes her pride was the biggest thing he knew. And Angel wanted to touch it, to hold it, to clothe himself and revel in it, because she had a right to that pride. It was arrogance to believe that one person could change the world—but Buffy believed it, and if that hubris was a sin he would willingly follow her into Hell.

He'd already been once. With her, it couldn't be that bad.

"Stop looking at me like that," Buffy said, cutting into his thoughts. She looked away uncomfortably and began to walk out of the cave. "We should go back. I'm guessing we might need a trip to Sunnydale—or elsewhere—for more books."

Angel didn't speak, merely followed her out and back down into the sewers. "Um," she said after a moment, stopping. He stopped a pace behind her—trying not to look at her like that. "Which way do we go?" she asked, and half turned back to him.

Angel didn't look at her. He brushed past her and turned right, and now Buffy walked behind him, their feet the only sound in the darkness. On the way to the Gateway, the sewers had sent a strange prickling sensation skittering down Angel's spine. Now that they were back in them, Angel could feel it again. It was the feeling you had when someone walked into a room, right before you turned to face the door.

"Maybe we should've brought a better offering, like Xander said," Buffy said, breaking the silence.

It was painful that her voice was still hopeful. "They took it last time," Angel said shortly, glancing down at the vase in his hand. Hearing her suck in her breath, he paused, waiting for her to come abreast of him. He went on walking beside her and said, more gently, "I don't think they know what our offering is until we get in."

She pursed her lips and reached to take the vase from him. When their hands brushed, she jerked back, almost dropping the vase she was now holding. She didn't say anything. Angel didn't say anything. She looked at the vase, and they walked in silence. "It's pretty," Buffy said at last.

"It's expensive," Angel replied, shrugging.

"Where do you get money for this stuff, anyway?" she asked, handing the vase back. "I never was able to figure that out."

Angel almost laughed, and Buffy looked at him swiftly. "What?" she demanded.

He glanced at her, expressionless. "Nothing," he said. Hurt flashed through her eyes, but she didn't press the point, and kept walking. Scowling, Angel followed her. He hadn't wanted to tell her that he'd been laughing because he'd been thinking of Cordelia, of how Cordelia's questions had never tended to where he got his money, but how come he didn't have more of it. "You're two hundred and change and you don't even had an investment portfolio?" she'd demanded once. "What about a bank account? A two hundred year old bank account could be collecting a hulluva lotta interest, mister!" Angel winced and followed Buffy.

The strange prickle at the back of his neck continued. Angel rubbed his nape and said, "This feels weird."

"I know," Buffy said quietly. "I mean, it's . . . twisted. I only came to see you so I could tell you face to face not to see me face to face any more—and I know there's a fly in that logic ointment somewhere, but now . . . You've lived three days in one, and—and Cordelia . . ." She sucked in a breath and looked away. When she continued speaking, her voice was low. "And you were human. I can't—can't get past that. I should have known. Something bad always happens when we're together."

"I meant it feels weird in here," Angel elucidated. "Like we're being watched."

"Oh, okay," Buffy said, and started walking again quickly. "Let's just rewind Buffy's little outburst and—"

"Pretend it never happened?"

She looked at him, something like confusion and something else—something very like shame—flooding her face. "Yes."

Angel frowned and grabbed her hand. "Something bad doesn't always happen," he told her firmly. She needed to hear this. She needed comfort more than she needed him to be careful, to be sensible, to be strong and stoic for both of them. She needed to remember that they had loved each other and that he still did love her, even though it was never a safe thing to say. His voice was low when he said simply, "Sometimes, it was very good."

He heard her breath catch. She looked at him, the something like shame still coloring her features. "That's part of what's so . . . twisted," she said, her voice trembling. "Something bad really happened and I'm angry and upset and I'm—I'm—I don't even know what I am. But instead of thinking about all that, I keep thinking about . . . about . . ."

"That's not wrong," he said gently, letting go of her hand.

"Isn't it? Because you don't even—you don't even . . ."

He stifled a sigh, recognizing the hurt and embarrassment from when she had said almost the same thing about their relationship being confusing on the day that was swallowed. She wanted to hear now what he had told her then, but then, it had tumbled from his lips without him thinking about it too much. Telling her he wanted her probably even more than she wanted him wasn't going to make this easier. If anything, he should tell her he didn't want her at all, and then she could forget about him. "I . . ." he began, firmly to resolved to do what was best. "It is confusing," he ceded at last, trying to be fair. "And when we're apart, it's easier." There. This time, he would stop there. She didn't need to know the rest.

But that look in her eyes—He couldn't do it. "It hurts," he went on, unable to stop speaking now—again. "Every day. I—I—God," he choked, releasing a breath he didn't need. He was saying it all over again, everything he shouldn't say. "I want to touch you. I want to—so much."

This is pathetic, the demon inside him told him. Unbidden, images of Buffy writhing, sweating—naked—a leg over his shoulder—nails deep in his back—gasping his name over and over and—

He could have had her, Angelus was letting him know, savoring his pitiful misery. Through a simple accident, he had exorcised his demon and gotten everything he wanted—and he had thrown it all away because his pretty little soul was a masochist. And we all know who's the sadist, the demon reminded him. Memories of her from that lost day thrust themselves into the space behind his eyes, impossible to ignore. Impossibly painful.

Buffy was inching closer. "But you could have touched me," she said, and he hated the fact that her voice echoed his demon. What he loved about her was how different she was, how antithetical she was to this ugliness inside of him. That her and the demon should agree—it's fun, the demon was telling him. Buff being agreeable was new and different. He had a fetish for the untried. And she had such a tight little—

"You could have," Buffy was repeating. "You could have—even just once. You were human. Didn't you think about it? Even just a little?"

Oh, he'd thought about it, but it wasn't the thinking part that was going to tempt him or persuade him. No chance of that, the demon laughed. It was the part of his soul that didn't think, didn't need to think, that knew from the simple touch of her hand that thought was pointless when it came to her—that was the part that had appeased both of their desires that day, and and he'd been wrong to give in. If he had thought about it more, he would have known he couldn't be human because when he was alive, he couldn't protect her. If he had thought about it more his demon would never be able to torture him with the memories pulsing beneath his irises even now.

"It never crossed my mind," Angel said simply, and tried to turn away.

"We did, didn't we," she said. It wasn't a question.

Her voice stopped him in his tracks, and she went on.

"We did. Did we . . . Angel, tell me. Tell me what we did. Please. I want to know."

"You don't," Angel said, turning to face her, his jaw clenching. "You told me you didn't." She opened her mouth, and he went on, his voice forced and hard, steam-rolling over her protests. "You asked, 'how can I live my life, knowing what we had'. Trust me," he ground out, "you don't want to know."

"It was that—that bad?" At the look on his face, she at last dropped her eyes. "Or I guess I mean . . . that good. Oh boy." She turned away to go on walking, blindly now. "I was really jonesing for another heartbreaking sewer talk."

Angel watched her go, thinking how lucky she was that she had only had to go through two of them. "So was I," he said softly, into the darkness, and turned to follow her.

Angel and Buffy returned to the group holed up in his office building in silence. They did not speak to each other alone again, and he very carefully avoided being near her or touching her. She, in return, seemed glad, the better off for it. It was just as well, he guessed. He might get to hold her—twice—when someone she knew died, but further than that they should not go. They could not.

They researched deep into the night, an odd crew: Giles, Buffy, Xander, Doyle, Willow, and Angel. For the most part, they didn't come up with anything useful, and so resolved to stay the night, still hoping to scare up some solution—or at least a revenge—over the weekend.

To Angel's infinite regret, Buffy slept in his bed, but luckily, she was sharing with Willow. He could just wash the sheets and pretend he'd never slept in that bed with her and that it hadn't ever been saturated with everything they had done that day that hadn't been. Doyle went home; Giles slept on the futon; Xander took the couch. That left the floor for Angel, which suited him just fine. He knew he would not sleep well that night anyway.

To Be Continued . . .

Disclaimer: Lines stolen from AtS 1.8 "I Will Remember You."