Buffy crouched on the hillside above Angel's mansion on Crawford Street, watching the lights below in the gathering evening darkness. A good girlfriend--ex-girlfriend--friend wouldn't be spying on her--friend, but sometimes it got to be too much, the need to be close to Angel versus the need to make sure the two of them never got too close to each other ever again. She remembered the horror on everyone's faces when they found out Angel was back, and she understood their feelings, she really did. Granted, Angelus hadn't killed her girlfriend or her fish, and she wasn't the one who had been tortured for hours. But she had been the ultimate focus of his acts. Every atrocity had had a little "P.S.: Hi, Buffy" attached to it. Sometimes she looked at Angel's face and only wanted to weep in rage.

Other times . . .

Watching him move could keep her mesmerized for hours. The tai chi had been a mistake, because moving together was too much like--moving together. She kept That Night locked safe in her mental box of forbidden treasures, desperately trying to keep the good memories separate from the awful ones. His eyes on her, his hands on her, his wondering, happy smile . . .

Down below, footsteps came up the concrete stairs from the courtyard. Not by accident, the breeze was in her face, so Angel wouldn't be able to smell her. He paused at the top of the steps to examine the night, then walked down the street towards town. Buffy listened until his footsteps had faded away, then she headed down to the house.

She slipped through the courtyard doors into the living room. He'd been burning candles and incense, sandalwood and nag champa. Next to the fireplace was a pile of old, hardbound books, only one of them in English. Something by somebody called Dashiell Hammett. She brought the book close and sniffed. Very faint cigarette smoke, musty old book smell. Carefully she put the book back on the pile, then she continued through the house.

She hadn't explored much when she'd been here before. While she had been keeping watch over mad, newly-returned Angel, she hadn't dared get too far from him. He'd gotten agitated to know she was in the house but not in his view. Now she investigated all the rooms, driven by some Goldilocks instinct to pry into things that weren't supposed to be any of her business.

Some rooms were full of furniture. One bedroom had a doll in one corner. Flowery, bloody perfume lurked in the folds of the lacy sheets on the bed. Another bedroom held a very plain bed and a wheelchair in one corner. Buffy vaguely remembered seeing the wheelchair tipped over in the living room when she'd come to say good-bye and leave her ring. Angel must have been tidying up.

The room on the end was stripped bare of all furniture and decorations, but it reeked of old blood. She backed out of that room quickly.

She tried to be surprised when she finally found his bedroom, but inner honesty admitted her true intentions. His old apartment had fascinated her with its hints of his long life before her, and she wanted to see what might be revealed in his new home.

Very plain in appearance, but the comforter on his bed was rich, soft velvet. His closet was open, showing more clothes than one would expect for the average guy. The colors were muted, but the textures were intoxicating. Buffy listened very carefully to the sounds of the mansion, then slowly pushed her hands into the hanging fabrics.

Snuggly cottons, luxurious wools. Hanging behind those, smooth silks, soft leather . . .

Slowly she stepped away. She remembered Angel in silk and leather. Angelus. Why had he kept those clothes? Did he have them before Angelus made his reappearance? Had Angel had the trappings of his evil self on hand all the time?

Or maybe he was just the frugal sort who wasn't going to waste perfectly good clothing.

She paused just a little longer to take a deep breath of the fragrance hanging in the clothing, then she firmly turned away. The rest of the room was yet to be explored.

There was a picture of her on his mirror-less dresser. A recent one, showing a sadder, just a touch wiser Buffy than before. She was standing in sunlight and doing her best to smile for the camera. Had Angel stolen the picture from one of her friends? She couldn't think of any way to find out.

She didn't see any of the artworks he'd had displayed in the old apartment. In fact, the only decorative thing in the entire room, other than her picture, was a music box on the night stand. A very unexpected music box, with a girl figure skater on the top. Slowly Buffy went over to pick it up. A few notes of "Swan Lake" tinkled out of the music box. It was the sort of froufy piece you'd normally find in the room of a twelve-year-old girl, not in the possession of a two-hundred-year-plus male vampire with a history of mass murder and mayhem. She twisted the base a few times and listened to the tiny tune.

"Ahem."

Buffy shrieked and tossed the music box into the air. Angel took one quick step and caught the figure before it crashed to the floor. Cradling it carefully, he looked at Buffy expectantly.

"You came back," she said breathlessly.

"I do that. I live here." He looked around the bedroom. "Were you looking for something?"

"Um . . ." She pointed at the music box. "That's pretty. Where did you get it?"

Angel blinked at her for a moment, then looked down at the music box. "I found it in an empty house. It reminded me . . ."

Buffy took a step closer. "Of what?"

Pain ghosted across his face and he didn't look up. "Something I kept thinking of when--when I was in--when I was gone. I'm not sure where it comes from. I remembered a girl dancing, twirling on ice. She looked so happy." He put the music box back on the night stand. "Then the monsters come. But that always happens in hell. They offer beautiful things, then corrupt them."

"That really happened," Buffy said quietly.

He finally looked at her. "Excuse me?"

"The girl on ice, then the monsters. The girl was me. The monster was an assassin of the Order of Taraka. He attacked me, and you saved me."

Angel stared at her, blinking. She'd caught him like this before, trying to sort out the true memories from the hell-visions of his time in torment.

"It was real?" he whispered. "It really happened?" She nodded. "It was you, and you were happy?"

She had to take an extra moment to get her voice under control. "I was happy." She shrugged. "At least until that stupid assassin showed up. I was really looking forward to skating with you. Stupid killer with rotten timing."

Angel ran a careful finger along the outstretched arm of the porcelain skater. "I remember watching you. You were getting to do something normal, and I didn't want to interrupt you."

Buffy thought for a few long moments, then a few long moments more. "That rink is still out there. They're still closed on Tuesdays."

He took his own few long moments before speaking. "Tomorrow's Tuesday."

"So it is." She waited anxiously, then relaxed when he finally smiled.