"Wait, who died, came back to life, and put you in charge?" Cordelia said, crossing her arms over her chest and staring Buffy down. "This is Angel's turf. He's the one who orders us around."

Buffy raised a brow and looked to Angel for help. Angel avoided her eyes. "Actually," he began.

"I knew it!" Cordelia exploded. "I knew she was just going to walk right in here and knock you over with a feather. Come on, Angel, this is your town. You can't just—"

"Shut up, Cordelia," Angel snapped, and, surprisingly, she shut up. "This isn't about who's in control, or who's town this is," he said, looking at the three quiet faces in front of him. His eyes narrowed on Cordelia. "You died. You have no . . ." He paused, trying to get his bearings. "You can have no idea what that was like."

"Hey, I was the one who died," Cordelia said, but she muttered it under her breath, and again fell silent.

"This isn't my idea of a good time," Angel said, his voice grim. "I don't want to have to live this day again."

At last, because he couldn't help it, his eyes wandered to Buffy. He was lying, he knew. A little voice inside of him was telling him that if he could live it three times, four, maybe he'd live it again tomorrow—and the next day and the next. And no tomorrow meant no consequences. And no consequences meant it didn't matter if he let the Mohra demon make him mortal, didn't matter how many days he spent with Buffy—because the next day he would always wake up a vampire again.

He could have done it today. He could have sliced the Mohra up, mixed blood, then hit the jewel and sent the bastard into the white light. He and Buffy could be downstairs right now. There were plenty of things they hadn't done that day he'd thought of doing once he turned human. In front of the mirror, for one thing. Seeing himself, seeing himself touch her, watching himself pushing into her, watching his own face as she made him come apart inside of her—

Not quite so good as kissing her in sunlight, having her fall asleep beside him, or hearing her say those three beautiful words, but maybe it was fourth on the list of things to do when he turned human. Well, there was the ice cream; he could go for that again. But there was also kneeling in front of her with his face between her—maybe the mirror wasn't fourth.

"Angel?"

"What?" His mouth was dry. He swallowed, and looked around.

"You were telling us how serious this is," Buffy said gently.

"Yeah, and then you went off into la-la land," Cordelia mumbled out of the side of her mouth.

"Yeah. Right." Angel turned to Buffy. "I don't think seeing the Oracles will help."

"You heard what he said," Buffy told Cordelia, and then she tilted her head to Angel. "Let's—What did you say?"

"Yeah, run that by us again," Cordelia said, smirking triumphantly.

"I went to the Oracles on the day Cordelia died," Angel explained. "They didn't know what I was talking about."

"Are you saying the Powers That Be folded time so much that even the Oracles couldn't remember they folded time?" Buffy asked.

"That doesn't sound right," Doyle volunteered. "The Oracles are supposed to be connected to the Powers That Be. They're our channel. They would know."

"Not if they screwed up," Buffy replied, looking to Angel for confirmation. "If this day thing is happening to Angel because the Powers folded time all wrong, then maybe the Oracles so confuzzled they didn't even know They did it wrong." She paused. "All the more reason to go see them, find out what they know."

Angel repressed an annoyed sigh. "That's what you said last time."

"When?" Cordelia asked.

"I'm guessing yesterday," Doyle said.

"Oh," Buffy said, scowling. "I guess it makes sense that I would have the same plan today as I did . . . today." Her frown deepened, and she looked at Angel. "Did we go?"

"Yeah. We couldn't get in. The Gateway wouldn't open up."

"Could be 'cause you'd already gone that day, and they knew what you were going to ask," Doyle guessed.

"That's what you said last time," Angel agreed.

Doyle shrugged. "They don't really like mortal beings summoning them to do petty favors."

"Hey, bringing me back to life isn't petty," Cordelia said.

"The Oracles saw it that way," Angel said. "They said I was being self-serving."

"Yeah right," Cordelia fired. "Mr. Sacrifice? Self-serving? Please. You don't even have a life because all you do is save other people's. Those guys don't know you at all."

Buffy was looking at Angel, her expression illegible. "I agree. They don't know you," she said softly, looking him up and down. "And they don't know me. I want to talk to them."

Angel sighed. "Okay. We have to go through the sewers."

"Where are these Oracles, anyway?" Cordelia asked.

"Under the post office," Angel answered.

"Huh?"

"It makes sense when you think about it," Doyle replied.

Angel winced.

"You okay?" Buffy asked, almost reaching out to touch him but thinking better of it.

"I never knew déjà vu could be this . . . annoying," Angel replied, and headed for the stairs.

Angel and Buffy were once again strolling through the sewers, and Angel once again felt the strange, slightly cold chill across the back of his neck—the feeling that they were being watched. He kept an eye out, but Buffy didn't seem to notice anything strange, and he couldn't put his finger on the feeling.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" Buffy said at last, into the darkness.

Angel didn't look at her. "No," he said softly. "And don't say anything about fantasies."

"I wasn't—" Buffy began, then cut herself off. She tilted her head, her gaze turning inward, introspective. "Wait," she said, confused. "I was. How did you . . . Oh. Gotcha. We had this conversation before."

"Yes."

"How about when you actually were human? Did we have it then?"

"Yes." He paused. "Before."

"Before what?"

"You were going to ask if we had it before or after I got the Powers to turn me into a vampire again."

Buffy scowled, looking at the ground, scuffing her feet. "So I knew you were human. I talked to you when you were . . . and we didn't—we . . ." She stopped walking. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. "You didn't—"

"I wanted you," Angel said quickly, turning back to her. "Don't say that."

"But you," she started, looking down, looking anywhere but at him to contain the tears threatening in her eyes. "You decided on the mature plan, didn't you. I know you, always with the—"

"Maturity," Angel finished for her. "But then again, I've never been very mature when it comes to you, have I, Buffy," he said. It was not a question; he did not wait for an answer. He turned from her to continue on through the sewers.

She grabbed his arm, her eyes filled with a strange mixture of horror and hope. "Angel—you're saying you—I—we . . . Tell me. Please, tell me what we—"

He flicked his gaze down to where her fingers gripped the black sleeve of his coat, slender and golden in the darkness. Then his eyes met hers, and he said simply, shortly: "Don't."

She tugged on his arm. "But I want—"

"You don't want to know," he said, more harshly than he meant to, jerking himself free of her grasp. "Trust yourself, Buffy; you told me before that you wouldn't be able to go on with your life if you knew. You don't want to know now."

He saw her turning that over, considering when she might have told him such a thing. Realizing she hadn't been in the position to make the decision he had made because she was still young enough to think she would only ever find happiness with him. Realizing he had made that decision when she couldn't. "You . . . you made the decision for me," she breathed. "Again."

His voice gentled at the shock and accusation in her voice. He spread his hands. "I couldn't tell you. I wasn't sure if I could do it if I spent another . . . Buffy, another minute with you."

She covered her mouth and turned away, taking several deep breaths to swallow her sobs—her tears, her heart. "Gee," she said after several long moments, her voice attempting to be bright. She made a small choking sound, but, after another minute or so, tried again. "Gee," she said, "I was really jonesing for another heart-breaking sewer conversation." When she turned back to him, her eyes were dry.

"Me too," he said briefly, and started making his way through the sewers again.

After a moment, she followed him. He could sense her using the silence to calm herself, to try to accept that all that he had said had happened, but that it would not happen again. For her, at least. "How many is it, for you?" she asked suddenly, her tone suspicious.

"The fourth, I think," Angel replied, and gave her a wry half-smile. It used to do the trick, all those uncomfortable moments last year. Whenever they got too close, whenever she accidentally touched him, whenever she saw that he was aroused just by being around her and that there was nothing on this earth either of them dared do about it, he could tell her everything was going to be alright. He never had to use words with her—good, because he didn't like speeches and always said the wrong thing anyway—he just had to smile, a little wry, a little teasing, and a little—unbeknownst to him—long-suffering, and she knew that they would both survive it.

He saw her register that smile, and, after several moments, saw her valiantly give him a little smile back. "I definitely got the better end of this bargain," she said at last, her voice light. "When the Powers That Be decide to screw with you again, remember to tell Them you don't know me."

Angel almost laughed. "Tell Them yourself. We're here."

To Be Continued . . .

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