"Excuse me, but are you deaf as well as lurksome? And, okay, kind of cute, but that won't save you."

Angel blinked at Buffy, knowing instantly that she was younger - very young, as early as he'd ever known her - and tried to place just when and where they were. The where became clear quickly enough; they were in an alleyway not far from the Bronze. But the when -

Buffy's hair was gathered up into sort of a ponytail, fuller than she wore it later on. She was wearing a soft blue shirt - he'd daydreamed about her like this, because this was a strong memory. And for some reason, his back really hurt. Finally, he realized what night this was and remembered his next line.

"I know what you're thinking," Angel said quietly. "But don't worry. I don't bite."

"You don't seem to talk much, either." She tilted her head, clearly unsure whether or not to be annoyed or titillated by their strange encounter. Seeing her here like this - beautiful and determined and still utterly fearless - reminded Angel of every single reason he'd ever fallen in love with her.

It also reminded him of every single reason he couldn't let this love affair begin again.

"Let me change that," he said. "Right now, trapped in the Hellmouth, is a powerful vampire known only as the Master. He's very old, he's very strong, and he's determined to rise again."

Buffy blinked, startled. Angel remembered his reluctance to tell her everything at once, the first time; back then, the hold that the Master and Darla had on him had still been powerful. There might have been some wisdom to it, though, as he saw the denial in Buffy's eyes. "Right. Did you not get the memo where I've retired from the whole Slayer thing?"

"Being a Slayer doesn't work that way. Unfortunately."

"What do you know about it?" She stepped closer to him, apparently as intrigued as she was unnerved. "Are you another Watcher? Ooh, are you taking over for that weird old guy in the library? Because he smells like mothballs."

Angel smiled despite himself. "I'm not a Watcher. And listen to Giles - he'll take good care of you."

"Wait, you know him?"

Time for the first lie. "Only by reputation."

"Well, he's the one you should be talking to about this Master sitch. Not me. From now on, I'm not spending all my time chasing after dead things."

If only that were true, Angel thought, and all at once it hit him that he was very tired. He hadn't slept in a few days now; during that time, he'd fought and run and watched people he cared about die, only to be reanimated by another leap backward. Soon he'd have to rest.

"So," Buffy said, in one of those agile twists of topic he'd almost forgotten about, "while you're telling me all this super-secret vampire info, are you going to tell me your name?"

He could think of no good reason not to. "Angel."

"That's a pretty name." She smiled, almost shy, and her foot made a soft semicircle as she studied his face. "I'm going to this nightclub in town - it's called the Bronze. Gonna meet up with some new friends I met at school today, Xander and Jesse and Willow. You want to come with? But you have to promise that there's not going to be any creepy vampire talk."

Who the hell was Jesse? Angel wondered. "Can't. It's been a long day. Besides, you'll have more fun with your friends." He remembered Xander's old jealousy, and added, "Xander seems like a nice guy. I think he likes you."

Buffy gaped at him. "What are you, the Mad Matchmaker of the Night?"

Even now - all these years later, knowing how much he'd hurt her and how badly it would end - it was hard to just let her go. But he couldn't have done anything else. This freedom was what she deserved. "It's a living."

"Am I going to see you again?"

Angel hesitated. "I'll give you some information about the Master, when you're ready. But I won't be in Sunnydale for long."

She shrugged, clearly giving up on him already. "You're going to be waiting a while to tell me about the Master," Buffy said, wandering away. "Trust me on this one."

He watched her go, her body turning into a silhouette in the streetlight, then finally passing into the shadows. Then Angel went home.

This small apartment had served him well; Angel hadn't missed it much in the years since he'd dwelled here, mostly because he'd never thought of it as "home," not really. But as he helped himself to a couple of bags of blood from the fridge and looked around, it struck him how efficient it actually was.

Okay, maybe not the window. That part was less useful. But the rest of it - the small bed, the fridge, the closets just large enough to hold his few possessions - was a good size. And he'd always liked this Taisho statue; pity he'd let Drusilla burn it.

Angel sat down on the corner of his bed, thinking of all the things that had happened here - the things that would never happen here.

Maybe this is where I needed to start again all along, he thought, though at this point mustering up any enthusiasm about his time-traveling was a determined effort. Maybe this is the only thing of real use I ever contributed, this information about the Master. I can go somewhere else after this and let everyone else fend for his- or herself. The evidence strongly suggests they'll all be better off that way.

At least now he was back before Darla had been staked in the first place. He wouldn't be making Darla jealous this time; if he took off quickly enough, there was every chance she'd follow, no matter what the Master said. Could Connor be conceived earlier than 2001? Angel grimaced as he realized he'd have to give it a try.

But then he remembered what Drusilla had said: Forward.

Was it possible he'd move back into the future? That the device had other powers that Chip hadn't revealed?

Then Angel wondered just what kind of a future he'd jump into, if he did get to move forward again. At this point, all he'd changed from the year 1997 was his relationship with Buffy - but that alone would be enough to completely transform his history thereafter.

His head felt heavy. Angel let his eyes shut for just a moment; the moment stretched out, long enough that he knew he'd better sleep before he collapsed.

Slowly, he took off his clothes - and God, they were terrible, how had he let Whistler convince him that this crushed-velvet stuff was in style? - and put them into the closet. In the blazer he'd been wearing was the device (which Angel put on the bedside table, the better to keep it in sight) and a small gift box. Angel opened it, then winced at the silvery cross inside. As he quickly replaced the lid, he remembered that, originally, he'd given it to Buffy; leave it to him to buy something she already had ten of. Sighing, he slipped between the sheets of his bed.

Angel hadn't realized what a relief it would be, to know himself utterly alone as he fell asleep, with no chance of being awakened either by need or laughter or love.

**

When Angel awoke late the next afternoon, his disorientation was nearly complete. When was he? Why was everything so familiar and yet so confusing? Only the gleam of the time-traveling device on the nearby table helped him settle himself.

1997: Get necessary information about the Master to Buffy - or, given her current mental block about being the Slayer, Giles might be more efficient. Giles, however, might recognize him as a vampire; an anonymous note should do the trick, as Giles would feel obligated to check out any clues, and the note's information would quickly bring him to a research gold mine. The note would seem especially credible, Angel decided over his B negative breakfast, if it arrived tucked between the pages of the Pergamon Codex.

Then he'd need to find Darla again. Easy enough - the two of them never fully lost their sense of one another, not even when she became human once more. He could hint about his next destination, someplace far from here, someplace isolated. She would follow. He could try for Connor. The rest would flow from there.

All in all, Angel thought, it was a pretty clean breaking point.

And yet - and still - he would like the chance to at least say goodbye. Not only to Buffy - though he meant that too - but to all the years that had followed, and flowed from, his relationship with her.

Angel realized he needed something - a conversation or an event or even a gift of a crucifix - before he could simply let go of it all -

--Caritas. Kyerumption. The Christmas it snowed. Phantom Dennis. Dingoes Ate My Baby. Nina. David Nabbit. Buffy's kiss at the ice-skating rink. Connor's first bath. Cordelia at the ballet. A business card with a drawing of a lobster on it. Doyle. Fred. Wesley. Gunn. Cordelia -

--He needed a chance to say goodbye.

So, at sundown, he set out for the Bronze. He was pretty sure he remembered something about Buffy having a major fight here this night; barring that, she might just drop by to hang out with Xander and Willow, and whoever this Jesse person was.

The crowd was as young and raucous as he recalled, laughing at nothing, barely listening to the music. Angel, who felt that popular music had taken a decided turn for the worse when Glenn Miller died, sympathized with them on that point. He sipped his club soda and scanned the crowds for Buffy, sure she'd appear soon -

"Haven't seen you here before."

Angel turned to see Cordelia, all of 16 years old, in a tight sweater and an unbelievably short skirt. The jeweled watch around her wrist and the crocodile leather of her shoes testified to her wealth; her flirtatious smile proclaimed the perfect confidence of a child.

Apparently Cordelia was used to having men stare at her, agape, because her smile only became wider. "So, do you go to UC Sunnydale?"

"I - the -" Bluffing was his best way through this, Angel decided. "I'm just visiting. From out of town."

"Ohmigod, you got stuck coming to Sunnydale on vacation? What a bummer." She tilted her head to one side, twirling a strand of her dark hair between two of her fingers. "I mean, my parents have dragged me on some totally unfun trips, like, to see paintings by old dead French people and stuff, but at least they never took me anyplace as bad as this. By the way, I'm Cordelia."

"Angel," he said. Now that he was over his initial surprise, he found himself glad that he'd run into her here; he needed to say goodbye to Cordy, too - even this version, who bore so little resemblance to the woman he'd come to love.

"Is that, like, Hispanic?" She smiled. "I'm WAY into other cultures. I drive through Taco Bell after every away game. I'm a cheerleader, you know."

He remembered Cordelia in her little cheerleader's outfit. Really, he should have bargained with her, later on, to get her to wear it once again. "I bet you're a great cheerleader."

"Should be squad captain next year. So, what's your sitch? Where do you go to college? I can tell you're not a high-school guy. You seem way too mature for that. I can tell just by the way you're looking around this place - you're, like, so over it."

"I'm about to start a year as an exchange student," Angel lied quickly. "In Ireland."

If he had expected Cordelia to be impressed by this news, he would have been disappointed. She wrinkled her nose. "Eww. Isn't it all potatoes and cows and clover over there?"

"I guess I'll see."

"Why did you sign up for that? When I study abroad my junior year, I'm definitely going to Paris, or Milan. Someplace where I can shop."

There was a reason, Angel reflected, that he and Cordelia had become friends later in life. "I'm interested in the history of Galway."

"So why don't you go to Galway?"

"I am," Angel thought, wondering if he would in fact try to go home again. "Galway is in Ireland."

"Oh." Already bored, Cordelia shifted her weight from foot to foot, then got a wicked gleam in her eye. "Is this why you're wearing the velveteen stuff? I was going to overlook it as a bad fashion choice by a hot man, which can always be fixed through forced shopping, but now I'm wondering if it's some kind of Irish peasant fad."

Somewhat annoyed - not as much by Cordelia's cattiness as by the dreadful clothes he was in fact wearing - Angel said, "That's it exactly. The Irish are crazy for shiny fabrics. Satin, velveteen, pleather, you name it."

"SO not going there." She gave him a very artificial smile. "Well, it's been just not amazing talking to you. Good luck in Goldway."

"Galway," he corrected her, but she was already moving on. Angel watched as she flagged her friends - including, of all people, Harmony - made a letter "L" with her thumb and forefinger and mouthed the word Loser.

Apparently sentimental goodbyes would not be the order of the evening.

From the corner of his eye, Angel saw the front door open; Willow, Xander and some boy he didn't know came in, all of them looking severely depressed. Slowly, without making it obvious what he was doing, Angel made his way closer to the small table they claimed for their own. Even his sharp hearing had trouble picking out their words from the din in the Bronze, but as he got near, their voices became clear.

"It's bad enough vampires are real in the first place," Willow said, playing with the straps of her overalls.

"Are you sure you guys saw what you think you saw?" said the boy Angel didn't know, but who was probably Jesse. "Because that sounds like you were hallucinating to me. Did you start using drugs and not give me any?"

"It wasn't drugs," Xander insisted. "There's a real live dead girl involved. What about that says hallucination to you?"

Darla had been in the prowl, Angel reminded himself. Perhaps she killed one of their friends -

"I can't think about it." Willow's round eyes filled with tears. "We were going to be friends. I could tell. Sometimes you can just tell, you know?"

"Buffy was the first-ever hot girl who gave me the time of day," Xander said, putting his head down. "This is not the main reason I mourn, but I think it counts as a valid cause."

Sickened, Angel stumbled backwards into -

"Excuse you!" Cordelia said, wiping her spilled drink from her sweater. "Clumsy much?"

"I have to go," Angel said, to nobody in particular.

**

He didn't even know where he was running until he'd almost gotten there: Sunnydale High. The library lights were still on.

As Angel pushed through the doors, Giles said, tiredly, "Official hours are over."

"Buffy," Angel said. "The Vampire Slayer. What happened to her?"

Giles stared at him, the lights reflecting from his round-rimmed glasses. "How on earth did you know -?"

"I know. Is she - did she -"

"She was killed last night." Giles slipped off his glasses and folded them into a pocket of his tweed blazer. "By a very powerful, very old vampire - the local lore has it that his name is Luke."

Luke. Angel remembered him all too well. He was old, and powerful, but either he or Darla could have snapped Luke in two like a twig. But how could his appearance last night have led to a fight with Luke?

"Buffy should have been able to protect herself," Giles said. "But she wasn't thinking of herself as the Slayer, not any longer, and I could not convince her in so brief a time." His sorrow had an abstract quality to it; this Giles had not known Buffy very well. "She wasn't carrying a stake or a cross -"

"A cross," Angel repeated. The small gift box in his left pocket felt far heavier than the time-traveling device. He had failed to give her that one gift, and because of that she had died on her first night patrolling in Sunnydale -

"Tonight I must break into the morgue and put a stake through her heart," Giles said. He seemed even older than the last time Angel had seen him. "Given that you - whoever you are - know what you know, I'm certain that doesn't shock you."

"It doesn't shock me," Angel said. "But it's not going to happen."

"Beg pardon?"

"I can still save her." He took out the golden device, despairing at the need to go back - again - but unable to leave Buffy dead because of his own foolish mistake.

Giles stepped closer, suspicion finally claiming more of his mind than grief. "I don't understand you." 

"That's okay," Angel sighed, giving the device a quick turn. "I don't understand me either."

**

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