Chapter One
From the middle of the crumpled bed, he tried not to whimper.
There was no pain, not yet, but it was coming. He could tell by now,
the first bare thread of it unraveling, leaving a trail of coming
agony. A bottle was clutched loosely in his hands at an awkward
angle, a thin trickle of amber liquid spilling from it and soaking
through the sheets.
He didn't care, couldn't really because everything was wound into
that single thread of pain and he had to stifle tears, detested
weeping and the pain but almost worse was knowing what came with it.
The vision. Pain, yes, oh yes, there was no mistaking the pain but
it was the vision that kept him here in his ruined bed, staring into
darkness that wasn't as dark since life had taken a turn at
twenty-one.
"Please, no more," Doyle whispered, his voice crackling with
dryness. "Please. I can't--" It was still coming, pitiless and
emerald hard. He buried his face in his arms, too tired to even
plead. It couldn't have lasted longer than half a minute, blurred
images raking through his brain and he choked out a rasping scream,
the bottle rolling free and clattering to the floor in a wash of
spilled alcohol.
The images stopped long before the pain and it was several minutes
before he finally managed to shift back up, wiping at his damp
cheeks with back of his hand. Leaning against the wall, he rested
his head against it and willed the throbbing to ease.
It was not going to happen again. He believed it with all the
desperate, clutching hope of those who visited the healing waters in
Lourdes. He had no choice but to believe. Until the thread began to
unravel again and all he could do was wait. And scream.
"So, before I even had time to go in for the second audition, they'd
already signed Pamela Anderson up for the role, I mean, can you
believe that?" Cordelia slouched down in her chair with a scowl,
fiddling with an ink pen. "She's got more plastic in her than a
Tupperware party."
With only the barest idea of who Pamela Anderson was, Angel gave her
a blank look which he hoped would make her give up on explaining the
loss of her last audition. Sometimes it worked and she would give
him a lovely look of silent disgust before going to do things
like file paperwork or even type. But today was not his day for
wishes to be granted. Cordelia, oblivious to all but her lost
chance, stabbed a manicured nail in his direction.
"Exactly! How could they pick her?" Cordelia gestured at herself,
her designer clothes carefully made to cling in all the right
places, her shoes which probably cost half of what Angel paid in her
a month. "Do you think Pamela Anderson is prettier than me?" she
asked seriously.
Angel was saved from having to answer by Doyle coming in. Calling
his look 'worse for wear' would really be giving it too much credit.
His clothing was the kind of rumpled that declared firmly they'd
been slept in, possibly more than once. Eyes red-rimmed and he was a
shade of pale that would have made most vampires look healthy. All
of it told a long story about a doomed love for alcohol and the
leftover bastard child called hangover, but Angel looked back down
at his magazine and said nothing. Doyle's proclivity for drinking
was nothing Angel could stop and so long as he kept out of trouble,
it was none of his business.
Tact and Cordelia, however, had never even met much less shared a
handshake. "Gee, Doyle, looking a little rough around the edges
there, don't you think?"
Doyle had stumbled over to the coffee machine and was pouring a cup
of dubious, dark liquid that might possibly even have been coffee
the day before. He tossed the cup back with barely a grimace and
poured another, leaning against the counter in a way that suggested
he actually needed the support. "Yeah," he mumbled, sipping his
second cup more sedately. Angel hoped Cordelia was at least capable
of calling 911. One more cup of that coffee and he was afraid Doyle
would go into a coma. "Think I'm coming down with a touch of the
flu."
"Must be that vicious Jack Daniels strain that's going around,"
Cordelia said sweetly, slapping her notepad down on Angel's desk
with more force than was strictly necessary. As expected, Doyle
flinched from the noise, actually wobbling before steadying himself.
"Cordelia," Angel warned softly, but Doyle cut him off.
He pressed a hand to his heart in mock pain. "You wound me,
princess," Doyle said quietly, but some hint of sincerity in his
tone seemed to mollify Cordelia. She picked up her notepad and
flipped through the pages of neat writing. "All right, just the
basics here today. One girl being stalked by her boyfriend, luckily
of the normal, human variety that gives us so much joy. However, he
will be in jail until tomorrow morning so that leaves us with..."
She flipped to the next page, chewing fiercely on the end of her ink
pen. "Aha! One Mr. Tobias, who is evicting a group of Chokya demons
from his apartment complex and wants us to help to make sure it goes
smoothly."
"An eviction?" Doyle took the notebook and squinted blearily at the
writing before giving up and tossing it back on the desk. "No
offense, but we're supposed to be investigators. When you know where
the people are, there's not much investigating to be done. May as
well play Clue by yourself. Since when are we hired muscle?"
Angel looked at Cordelia sourly. "Since he was here before I got up
this morning and Cordelia took the job before I could say no."
"It's a perfectly legitimate job," she declared, standing and
retrieving her notebook. "And unless the Sundance Kid has a vision
today, your schedule isn't exactly overflowing."
Was it his imagination or did Doyle go even paler at the
thought of a vision? Not that Angel blamed him; a vision on top of a
hangover had to be distinctly unpleasant.
"All right," Angel agreed heavily. "Let's just get this over with."
He pulled his coat on before laying a steadying hand on Doyle's
shoulder. "You coming?" he offered, giving him the option of bowing
out gracefully.
To his surprise, Doyle nodded an agreement. "Yeah, I'm with you.
Wanna go through the sewers or in the trunk of the car?"
As unpleasant as the sewers were, it wasn't a long walk and there
hadn't been a trunk created that Angel found to be living anywhere
near the word comfortable. "Sewers," he decided and Doyle shrugged,
tossing back the rest of his coffee before following him downstairs.
Halfway down, and out of Cordelia's earshot, Angel finally asked,
hesitantly, "Are you all right?"
"'M fine, why?" Doyle answered distractedly, his eyes on the stairs.
"It's just, you smell--" Doyle stopped and gave him a vaguely
horrified look.
"I smell?" Angel watched with some bemusement as Doyle lifted
an arm and took a cautious sniff.
"No, I'm not commenting on your personal hygiene," he paused,
frowning at the tousled state of Doyle's hair and decided to let it
go. "I mean, you smell strange."
"Strange?" Doyle repeated, bewildered. "Strange how?"
Angel gave him an exasperated look. "If I knew how it was strange,
then it wouldn't exactly be strange, now would it."
"I guess not," Doyle replied dubiously. He pulled up the front of
his shirt and gave it a sniff. "Maybe I'm using a new laundry
detergent, eh?"
It wasn't worth pointing out that he would have known if the smell
was soap. It wasn't unpleasant, precisely, but it wasn't something
he normally smelled on Doyle. It made him want to lean in and inhale
it deeply, taste it to see exactly what that strangeness was. But
that would be a serious infringement of personal space and while
Doyle was a fairly laidback guy, there were limits. Being sniffed by
a vampire probably rated up there.
Instead, Angel held the trapdoor open for Doyle and followed him
down silently.
"What the hell is a Chokya demon, anyway?"
The second night he gave up on the whiskey. With the first vision
still trembling in the back of his mind, hanging there behind his
eyes, he staggered out of his apartment to a bar he knew downtown.
The air was heavy with smoke too thick to be simply nicotine and it
stung his aching eyes, but it was easy to find what he was looking
for.
Easy to let the other man take him around back and press him against
a rough brick wall, his mouth tasting of the liquor Doyle hadn't
drank that night. Strong, taller than him, but only human, and Doyle
gasped when he bit lightly at the curve of his neck and knew he
couldn't do it. Mumbled apologies and a dim struggle later left him
laying on the concrete, the taste of blood sharp and bitter in his
mouth, too stunned to reply to the wash of insults that were both
vicious and true, fucking little cocktease that he seemed to be.
He tested the cut on his lip with the tip of his tongue, slick blood
dribbling down his chin, and it was so against any gay stereotype
he'd ever heard that Doyle laughed, choking on the sound as it made
pain flare in his head.
The man was still standing there, blood griming his fist and Doyle
flinched, expecting another blow, perhaps a real beating to round
out the evening. But the blow came from within, no faint wave of
warning before he was dropped into true pain and he saw.
It barely eased when the images halted and he could feel gravel in
his hair, stuck to the back of his coat. The other man was gone. Too
drained for humiliation or shame, for anything but the heavy throb
of pain that nothing could reach, Doyle curled up on the ground
amidst cigarette butts and broken glass and cried, digging his
fingers into his scalp as though to tear the pain away with his bare
hands.
No one spoke to him.
"What's going on?" Angel asked. He pressed a cool cloth into Doyle's
hand and he accepted it wordlessly, draping it over his forehead.
"Told you, I was coming down with the flu," he muttered, eyes hidden
beneath terrycloth.
"You have a cut on your lip," Angel said mildly. "Was that the flu
too?"
"Cut myself shaving."
It was so ridiculous that Angel had to resist the urge to shake him
and had to cross his arms over his chest. "I haven't shaved for a
long time, but even I know you don't generally shave your lips."
"You do if you slip." Doyle sat up with a sigh, scrubbing his face
with the washcloth. "Angel, I promise, I'm just a little under the
weather." At Angel's skeptical look, he added, "Didn't I come to you
the last time I was having trouble?"
"After I cornered you and forced you to tell me."
"Yeah, and I'm cornered right now and I'm telling you, it's all
right."
Angel didn't believe him, the sincerity in Doyle's eyes too artful
and pleading to be real. It stung him deeply and he turned away,
letting Doyle keep his lies for the moment. Sooner or later he'd
confess, and when he did, Angel would be there to help.
He only hoped it would be before Doyle was really in trouble.
The third night he went to a different bar, flashier and brighter,
and the noise dug into his already aching head like claws. He never
felt his humanity so strongly as when he was surrounded by demons,
their faces as strange and horrifying to him as the one he saw
occasionally in the mirror and it reminded him too much of the first
moments of blinding terror. Always, always, he remembered it, frozen
horror where no skittering thought could break through his panic and
he'd thought himself damned.
He'd only been half right.
Crept onto the stage and sang the only song he could think of,
something by Prince or whatever the hell his name was or wasn't now,
his voice cracking ridiculously on the high notes. He'd expected
laughter or even cruelty, standing beneath the spotlight with sweat
creeping down his face. He'd never expected the silence, looming
over him like pity and he'd stopped halfway through the song,
stumbling down the stairs.
Gentle hands caught him, red eyes in a green face filled with that
same pity and Doyle hadn't waited to hear the truth, knew exactly
what the demon would have told him. He'd seen it every hour of the
night, the blurry fast-forward of images he'd been avoiding for
days.
He knew exactly where he was supposed to go.
The problem with living in a place that had a door was that,
inevitably, people knocked on it. Or pounded on it in the middle of
the night, as the case may be.
Still shaking off sleep, Angel padded over in bare feet to open it.
If it was Cordelia, he swore that someone had better be dead and not
someone of the cockroach persuasion. He'd had to have the
exterminator in twice since that week she'd stayed here. Was it part
of his penance that he could never get a straight eight hours of
sleep? Righteousness could be a cruel master.
"All right, all right," he muttered, pulling open the door. Only to
stumble back as Doyle fell inward. Angel caught him automatically,
nearly sending them both to the floor. He caught his balance,
dragging Doyle back up with him. His head lolled back, his open eyes
the only sign that he wasn't unconscious.
"Doyle?" Green eyes rolled towards him and then away, and in his
panic Angel shook him harder than was strictly necessary, dragged a
pained moan from the limp man in his arms.
"Doyle? What happened? Are you hurt?" Angel asked. He moved them
over to the sofa and settled Doyle on it, searching with careful
fingers for any injuries. Someone had attacked him, over another
debt perhaps? He found no broken bones or obvious bruises and Doyle
was batting him away before he could check again. The smell of
whiskey was strong around him, his eyes lined with red. He looked
like hell, and that was saying something from someone who'd seen it
firsthand.
"What happened?" Angel asked again, slowly. It wasn't like Doyle to
come over for something as simple as being drunk; otherwise he
expected he'd have seen the man a lot more often. After a brief
morning check in, he'd been conspicuously absent at the office the
day before but that was hardly unusual; Doyle didn't exactly get
paid by the hour.
Doyle managed to push up into a sitting position, wincing and
trembling visible. "I--I can't..." he rasped out. He struggled to say
something else, his voice vanishing into a cough and Angel started
to ask if he needed a drink, some water or even another glass of
whiskey.
He moved surprisingly fast for someone who looked like they'd been a
couple rounds with a Chevy truck. One moment he was on the sofa,
shaking and sick and the next he was over Angel, pressing their
mouths together in a sloppy kiss. Angel snatched him away, and was
forced to catch Doyle again by the arms as he sagged to the floor.
He was sobbing, curling around Angel's grip to rest his head on the
vampire's shoulder. "I can't do this. I can't--"
"What happened?" Angel punctuated it with a gentle shake, trying to
get him at least talking. They could worry about all this making
sense later.
But Doyle hadn't stopped, grating out harsh, nonsensical things,
"--I can't, they can't expect me to do this, I'm trying me best and
I--" He cut off abruptly, Doyle's eyes rolling back as he started
convulsing and at least this was something familiar, holding Doyle
and soothing him until the vision passed.
Sweat made Doyle's clothes stick to him damply; Angel could feel it
through the back of his shirt as he cradled Doyle in his lap. Glazed
green eyes drifted up to him, awash with tears. "Talk to me," Angel
urged, patting away the sweat on Doyle's forehead with the sleeve of
his robe. "Tell me what you saw."
The laughter was unexpected, shrill and pained. Doyle tried to push
away and sit up before surrendering with a soft moan and sliding
back down. "What did I see?" he said, shaking his head and the
laughter held a bitter edge, closer to hysteria. "S'what I always
see, isn't it? Us. I keep seeing us."
"Us," Angel repeated, trying to make sense of it.
"Us," Doyle agreed, fresh tears on his cheeks and his nose was
running. He wiped it with the back of his arm, making Angel wrinkle
his own nose in disgust. "I see us--" He broke off with a gesture,
crudely poking the finger of one hand into the loosely cupped palm
of the other and Angel started, because that was pretty
unmistakable.
"Oh. Us," Weakly. Angel had a sudden wish that he had gotten the
bottle of whiskey in the back of his cupboard because this was not
turning out to be a normal evening, even for them. If the Powers
That Be had designs on his virtue, they usually went the other way.
"So you had a vision about us having sex, got drunk and came over
here to do the deed?" Angel asked disbelievingly.
Doyle laughed harshly. "A vision? A vision." As Angel watched
helplessly, his laughter seeped back into tears. "More like a
baker's dozen, every night. They get worse every time. About every
fucking half an hour, like clockwork. You could bake a cake by
following it."
Dozens of visions, with all the pain that came packaged with them.
Angel couldn't think of words to express his horror. It was a
miracle Doyle had waited as long as he had to come here, even more
that he had actually made it.
"I couldn't take it anymore," Doyle continued, his words slurring
into each other. He was moving now, as loose-limbed and awkward as a
newborn calf as he crawled into Angel's lap, straddling him. Angel let him, his hands fluttering nervously, wanting to stop
Doyle, not wanting to hurt him any more.
"I can't take it," Doyle said, simply. His face was so close to
Angel's it made his eyes try to cross, blurring it into something
strange. Angel caught him by the shoulders, holding him away when
Doyle would have moved closer.
"How do you know this will make them stop?" Angel asked, his own
voice rough to his ears. Doyle was sitting on him and moving,
resisting Angel's efforts to keep him still and it was more
distracting than Angel wanted to admit. Doyle would hardly have been
in preference for a bed companion if he'd been given a choice, but
he hadn't, and the half-demon wasn't exactly unattractive by any
standards.
"Isn't that what we do?" Doyle smiled thinly, tilting his head so he
could rub his cheek against Angel's restraining arm. It was so
deliberately seductive, calculated, that it shamed him at how it
made him hard. How was it he could be so casually sexy here and
fumble it daily with Cordelia? "We follow the visions like good
little pups, we do what we're told and we save the day. We help the
hopeless, don't we?"
They did, and Doyle was smiling, his teeth digging lightly into his
lower lip and he had to know what that did to Angel's demon. Doyle
tried to lean in again, stopped by Angel's grip on his shoulders. He
strained against it, not even flinching as Angel tightened it
painfully.
"I can't do this, Doyle, you know I can't."
"Do you honestly believe you're going to find any perfect happiness
in fucking me like this?" Doyle said, and the coldness in his
usually easy voice made Angel close his eyes briefly, wondering how
much pain it took to make his friend like this. He opened them again
to see Doyle wetting his lips, slowly, deliberately. "Help me."
He would have been able to resist a seduction but Angel couldn't
resist his pain, the hot shine of it in his eyes. Doyle was
surprisingly light in his arms as he carried him to the bed. Doyle
didn't wait, briskly stripping off his shirt and unbuckling his
pants the moment Angel released him.
Angel mimicked him, slower, stripping off his robe to leave him just
in boxers. Suddenly, this all seemed very awkward and he had to
fight the ridiculous urge to put the robe back on. With his goal
achieved, Doyle had lost all his seductiveness and was rummaging in
the night table by Angel's bed.
"D'you have anything to make this easier, like?" Doyle's voice was
muffled as he leaned over further, nearly falling off the bed as he
looked under it.
"Easier?" Angel repeated blankly.
Doyle flashed him an exasperated look. "Lubricant?"
Flustered, because there was only one reason he would have any use
for lubricant, Angel dug a small tube out of the back of the drawer.
Doyle didn't bat an eye at the fact it was half-empty though Angel
squirmed inwardly. A quarter of a millennium old and he was still
embarrassed to have proof that he masturbated.
Doyle's eyes were shadowed now, lowered, and his brisk manner
faltered. "You're gonna have to--"
"I know," Angel interrupted hastily, making no move to get on the
bed. He shifted from foot to foot, feeling absurdly naked and
practically virginal. It had been a long time since he'd had sex
with anyone, over a century since he'd done it with a man and even
then, he hadn't had any preferences for men. Women were softer,
sweeter, and in abundance. There had been no reason to have men,
other than the occasional drunken foray and being Angelus hadn't
really made it a gentle experience, just mindless fucking with
bloodslicked skin and mouths.
Still, his few experiences had left him with the knowledge of what
to do. It was a shame that it didn't make him feel any better about
doing it.
"Right," Doyle pushed his opened pants down and off, leaving Angel
with a brief glimpse of nudity before he drew his legs up. If
anything, Doyle suddenly looked even more awkward than Angel felt.
"Um, how do you," Doyle's voice cracked and he settled for a weak
gesture. "Want me?"
The sudden surge of relief nearly made him weak at the knees and
even that made him ashamed. Doyle had apparently already decided
that he was going to be the one on the bottom, not that Angel would
have told him no, but...if that was how the vision wanted it to be
Angel wasn't about to argue the point. It was on the tip of his
tongue to ask Doyle to roll over onto his knees so he wouldn't have
to look in his eyes. Certainly he doubted Doyle would protest that.
But the way he was still trembling, the shade of pain still behind
his eyes, made Angel rethink it. Facing each other wasn't going to
be better but it would probably be a little easier for Doyle to lay
there and--
They were really going to do this. "Why would the Powers want us to
have sex?" he blurted. He had a sudden image of a group of
omnipotent beings hovering in their little cloud-dome, waiting for
their hero to give them some homemade porn. Just when he thought his
life had reached the borders of strangeness, it always pushed on
through and found another continent of bizarre waiting to be
discovered.
"I don't know and I don't fucking well care!" Doyle was shaking
again, his eyes squeezed shut. Angel wondered if he was fighting
tears. It was worse to see him like this; skinny and naked, arms
wrapped around his knees as he shook. "I'll be having another one
soon, Angel, please."
He didn't wait for Doyle to beg. Sitting gingerly on the edge of the
bed, Angel took the lube from Doyle before guiding him down to lie
on his back. He went willingly, allowing Angel to maneuver him into
a comfortable position. His normally deft fingers fumbled with the
cap on the tube and Angel realized he was shaking, too. The last
time he'd had sex with a soul, he'd awoken to agony and loss, and
the things his soulless counterpart had done still haunted his
nightmares. Let this be right, he begged silently. It had to be
right, it was a vision, and Doyle's visions had yet to lie to them.
He touched Doyle with slick fingers, automatically petting his hair
with his free hand as Doyle made a soft sound of discomfort. Angel
wondered if Doyle had done this before, didn't have the nerve to
ask. If not, he learned quickly enough, spreading his legs further
and letting Angel push his fingers in deeply. God, hot and silky
soft but he barely had time to register it before Doyle was
speaking. "Please, quick," Doyle urged thickly, "Before another one
comes, please, please..."
Angel slipped his shorts down and off, and had to fight a rush of
hysteria as he realized he wasn't hard enough to do it. Kneeling
over his shaking, nearly crying friend wasn't exactly his usual jerk
off material. Falteringly, Angel took himself in hand and stroked,
trying to think of something, anything, to help matters along. True
to his luck, his mind went completely blank without even an old
Playboy centerfold lurking in a corner to peek out at him.
He nearly fell off the bed in shock when cool, wet fingers wrapped
around him, touching him. Doyle had large hands, strong and oily
with lubricant and Angel arched into them without thinking, sucking
in a sharp, unneeded breath as they squeezed. One thumb circling the
head of his cock in a slippery little movement that had him gritting
his teeth before they pulled away, sliding down to the comforter
beneath them.
With damp, trembling hands he caught Doyle's hips and lifted,
folding one leg over his shoulder. It had been years, years upon
years, but his body knew what to do, pressing forward, the head of
his cock against stubborn muscles that refused to give. A brief
flash memory of Buffy but even she hadn't been this tight,
excruciatingly hot against his much cooler flesh. Doyle had a double
handful of the blanket clenched in his fists and he was staring
glassily over Angel's shoulder. "Don't stop," he whispered, his eyes
fixed.
He was hurting him, had to be but it was too late, the pressure, the
impossible heat was calling to him as much as the thrum of Doyle's
blood and Angel pushed forward hard, felt the tightness give as he
barely slid inside. The sound Doyle made was like a siren call to
his demon, the softest cry of pain, and it made him push, forging
past any resistance. He couldn't wait, pulling back and shoving in
again, hard enough that the bed groaned a protest and God, so
impossibly tight, clenching around his cock like a brutal fist.
The skin beneath his hands was slippery with sweat and Angel dug his
nails in automatically, holding Doyle still, pale skin beneath his
palms and he itched to bring a flush of color to it. Deep redness
drawn to the surface, purpling into sweet bruises and how lovely
would it look. Doyle was lovely in this shaded light, dim and soft,
touching the glistening dampness on his face and...Angel froze,
shuddering, trying not to feel the cold heat of his inner demon,
trying to keep still even as he hated himself for not being able to
stop.
Doyle was crying, his face pinched tight as tears tracked down his
cheeks. As he watched, they slid down into his hair and vanished,
leaving salty lines of moisture as an accusation.
"Shh," Angel tried to soothe, shifting forward and stilling again as
Doyle flinched. Guilt was like a noose, strangling him, and Angel
could only whisper, "I'm sorry."
Green eyes flashed open. "Don't stop," Doyle whimpered. "You have to
finish, you have to, it'll start again--" His voice rose, choked with
hysteria, and he started moving, struggling against Angel's still
body and sending brutal flashes of pleasure into the base of his
spine, layer upon layer of heat.
Desperately, Angel rocked his hips, one gentle thrust and Doyle
calmed, his white-knuckled grip on the blankets easing. It wasn't
enough, not good enough to just comfort him, not when Angel was
doing this, using him like this, shame like the taste of ashes in
the back of his throat. It made it easier to be gentle, easing the
awkward curl of Doyle's legs over his arms as he pushed back inside.
He heard Doyle take a breath and that sound wasn't pain, not at all.
"Wait--" Doyle gasped, "Wait, I--" He couldn't, not with so many years
crowding in, his demon howling in the back of his mind. Angel
fumbled a hand free, sliding it down the wet skin of Doyle's belly
and found him hard, blisteringly hot against Angel's cold palm but
it warmed with the friction. Doyle was grabbing at his arms, a wild,
keening cry escaping from him as scalding wet heat spurted over
Angel's fist. His body clenched so tightly that Angel could feel it
in his soul, thrusting mindlessly, needing that final release so
damned much that when it came he gave a startled cry, draining
himself in the willing clasp of Doyle's body.
He collapsed, sagging down onto Doyle until he remembered that one
of them needed to breathe and wasn't doing it very well with what
was probably double his own weight pushing him into the mattress.
Doyle's ragged moan as he pulled out made him flinch, easing off the
man to lay beside him.
Dark lashes trembled on Doyle's cheeks over the violet shadows under
his eyes. Hesitantly, Angel touched the sweaty mass of his hair and
was flooded with relief when Doyle didn't pull away. He wanted to
speak but what to say? His etiquette wasn't really up to standard
for normal situations and this was a tad beyond his meager skills.
He'd nearly had Doyle's hair straightened when Angel realized he was
asleep. Probably closer to unconscious given the state he was in.
Angel wondered how long it at been since the half-demon had managed
to actually sleep. Days, he'd said earlier. A vision nearly every
hour for days.
They were both cooling, Doyle more than Angel with sweat drying his
skin to clamminess. Careful not to wake him, Angel managed to pull
the comforter over them both. He went completely still when Doyle
moved restlessly, shifting to lay closer and it was with cautious
hands that Angel pulled him near, willing to take whatever passed
for affection from this strange coupling.
He didn't sleep for a long time, but held Doyle as he did, listening
to each slow breath, the rhythm between them and his heart.
Chapter Two
He woke up feeling cold, not something he was accustomed to feeling.
Angel automatically burrowed deeper into the blankets, pulling them
over this head. Just because the cold wouldn't hurt a vampire didn't
mean they liked feeling it. It was already too late; he was more
awake than asleep, his brain starting to percolate and he started to
remember. Doyle, the visions...the sex.
The bed next to him was empty but still warm. Lifting his head from
the blankets, Angel peered around the room. Nothing, which meant
Doyle had left or--a sound from the bathroom told him it was the
second option. Angel rolled over onto his back and stared at the
ceiling. He should probably get up and get some clothes on before
Doyle came back out here. Maybe he should make breakfast or
something, not that he had a lot of food in his refrigerator.
Cordelia made an attempt to keep a small stock of groceries down
here, although after having to throw away a carton of milk that was
so far past the expiration date it had been spreadable, Angel had
kept better track of what she'd left. At this particular moment, it
wasn't much.
He was trying to remember if he'd ever seen Doyle eating Light 'n
Fit yogurt when the man in question came out of the bathroom
looking--pretty much as bad as he had the night before. Spending the
night in a pile on the floor didn't seem to have done much for his
wardrobe. From the rush of steam, Angel was guessing he'd used the
shower and his hair was standing at odd angles. How was it that
these people couldn't do their hair without a mirror? He'd been
managing it for the better part of two centuries without any added
mental trauma.
Worse was the way Doyle was walking, shuffling practically to one of
the large chairs that was against the wall. Angel watched as he
lowered himself into one like an old man, groaning as he settled on
the soft cushions. An apology sprang to his lips automatically and
stayed there, unspoken. That was an early morning conversation that
he wanted to have exactly never.
Gee, Doyle, I'm really sorry for fucking bruises into your
internal organs. Angel shuddered silently. No, that was not
going to be said, especially before coffee.
Doyle just noticed he was awake and he swallowed hard, staring at
the knot of his hands in his lap. "Hey."
"Morning," Angel said, volleying the burden of conversation back to
Doyle. He didn't catch it, instead letting it fall limply between
them. Angel was starting to regret very much that he hadn't taken
the opportunity to put his pants on. At this particular moment, the
bed would have to be actively on fire for him to feel like getting
out of it.
Doyle was still staring at his hands, as completely out of his depth
as Angel. Seeing it gave Angel the strength to speak again. "Did
you, um, want some breakfast?" he fumbled out. Oh, yeah, he was a
man about town. Maybe he could get some track lighting and turn up
the bass on his home theater system.
Doyle didn't seem to mind, latching on to the gambit gratefully. "I
could eat." He met Angel's eyes, briefly, before his gaze skittered
away. "I'll just go into the kitchen."
"Thank you," Angel muttered, waiting for him to walk carefully into
the other room before climbing out of the bed. He dressed quickly,
barely looking at what he was shrugging into. A shower would wait
until later, even though he could smell--
Angel groaned. He could smell pure sex, the heavy salt mixture of
sweat and semen. His body responded automatically and with some
difficulty, Angel fastened his pants. "Where were you when I needed
you last night?" Angel muttered, making sure his shirt was untucked.
It was easier in the kitchen, plenty of things to play with
awkwardly rather than talk. Eggs to crack and mix into the semblance
of an omelet to set in front of Doyle, who seemed intent on staring
at anything that was nowhere near Angel. He muttered a thank you and
started eating, shoveling it in with surprising enthusiasm.
Constant visions probably did have an effect on the appetite.
Angel poured blood into a mug for his own breakfast, watched it turn
circles in the microwave, watched Doyle eat out of the corner of
his eye. His fork scraping on the plain white plate, Doyle was
eating with a determination that spoke of his discomfort.
I know exactly how you feel, Angel thought wryly, taking a sip from
the mug. Down to the last internal squirm. This is what happened
with the passage of time. When he'd been alive, things had been much
simpler. Bellow out a goodbye, stagger home and fall asleep outside
in the stable. Now there were mornings after, and knowing that
eventually they would have to talk about why. Which could
hopefully wait until the worst of the bruises were healed and he had
showered, and he really wished he hadn't remembered that. He took
another sip, washing away the scent of sex on the back of his tongue
with animal blood.
"Hello? Anyone alive down there or a reasonable facsimile of it?"
They both turned to watch Cordelia push open the lift door and peer
inside. Seeing Angel, she walked briskly in, stopping in surprise
when she realized Doyle was sitting at the table, finishing up the
last of his breakfast.
"You're in early," she frowned. "Did you have a vision or
something?" Doyle went very still and glanced at Angel so briefly
that he almost didn't see it. The corners of his eyes were marked
with tiny lines of broken blood vessels, evidence of pain and
exhaustion.
"No," Doyle replied, shortly. He stood and set his plate in the
sink, rinsing it quickly. "I've got a few things that need taking
care of. I'll see if I can't catch up with you in a couple hours."
His gait was fairly normal as he walked to the elevator. It was
obvious only to Angel that he had to concentrate to keep it that
way.
Cordelia took his chair and shook her head. "Well, he's cheery in
the early hours, are you cooking?"
Angel was still looking at the elevator door. "What? Oh, yeah,
sure." He set his barely touched cup on the counter and opened the
refrigerator in search of more eggs. It was easier to concentrate on
that for the moment, cracking the eggs into the bowl he'd used
before and whisking them into a frothy mass.
"You should probably get over to Stalker Lady's house too, and get
the details of Mr. Not-So-Right."
"Yeah," he agreed absently. Feed Cordelia, help lady being stalked.
See Spot Run. He could handle that right now. Doyle he would handle
later. Ignoring the sudden rush of embarrassment from that thought,
Angel concentrated on not burning the eggs.
One of the biggest perks of wearing all dark clothing was that it
made laundry a lot quicker. Angel was folding the last of it,
stacking another towel on top of the growing pile. A half-full
basket was at his feet, more towels and sheets waiting to be folded.
The case earlier in the day had been far too easy, typical moronic
boyfriend going right after the girl after he'd only just been
released. He was back in jail, this time with a much higher bail,
and Angel was back here, doing laundry. Waiting. Killing time was
less enjoyable than killing demons and now that his laundry was
finished, he was starting to run out of mindless tasks. He'd managed
to keep his mind carefully blank for most of the day, between
working the stalker case and doing housework. Maybe the kitchen
floor could use a wash.
Angel paused, a small towel hanging from his hands. Was it really
that difficult to think about the sex, try to figure out what it was
the Powers wanted from them?
God, yes.
It was like having sex again, without his soul winging away in the
aftermath, had reawakened his carefully dormant hormones. He'd spent
half the day trying to walk normally, grateful that his shirt was
long enough to cover the not so little problem. Walking into the
apartment had been like getting slapped in the face with it, Essence
of Sex, and all of it smelled like Doyle.
Completely absurd, considering he'd never even looked at Doyle as a
sexual creature before but his body didn't seem to be giving a damn,
given the way he'd looked the night before. So pale, stretched out
beneath him. A touch too thin, his ankles had been bony and hard,
all of him hard and dusted with dark sprigs of hair, a crosshatched
pattern that led downward to where Angel had been inside, hot,
volcanic heat and he'd--
And he'd cried.
Angel leapt at the sudden pounding on the door, accidentally tearing
the towel he was holding in half. He tossed the ragged pieces on the
washer with an internal sigh and went to answer it.
He didn't collapse the moment Angel opened the door this time, stood
there instead with clear, green eyes that met Angel's pin-straight
for the first time since they'd started this. Strained, not quite
desperate but it wouldn't take long to get there, not long at all.
Now they were going to talk, spill out everything between them and
they could figure out what the hell had happened.
"I need you to do it again."
Angel's thoughts stuttered to a halt. "Wha--" He didn't have a chance
to continue, Doyle pushed past him and braced his arms against the
top of the sofa, leaned against it.
"I need you to do it again," he repeated, his fingers buried in the
soft fabric as he gripped it. "After last night, it was all right
for a while, you know? But then, I had another one just on my way
here. So we have to do it again." Doyle turned to him, eyes
pleading, and Angel had to fight the urge to go to him. It was just
the five steps between them, Angel could push him back against the
sofa and have him, right there.
He didn't move. Because this was not
right, not even really sex, this was Doyle whoring himself out to
stop the pain and no amount of hormonal insanity was going to make
that all right.
"Doyle," Angel began, trying to be gentle, "We need to talk first,
all right? We need to find out what's going on so we can stop it."
Doyle was already shaking his head, the same franticness of the
night before seeping into him. "We already know how to stop it,
don't we? Have us a quickie, you bang off, and I get a good night's
sleep. Seems pretty straightforward to me."
Angel looked at him silently for a beat, studying Doyle's earnest
face before saying, softly, "I'm sorry I hurt you last night."
"What?" Doyle blinked and shook his head wildly. "Fine, man, great,
apology accepted, can we get on with it?" He walked up to Angel and
pressed against him with the same gentle tilt to the head that had
seduced the demon in him a hundred times before Doyle's grandfather
had been born. Begging for someone to kiss that soft, tender line
down to the point of his pulse where redness would boil out, sweet
and hot.
Instead, Angel caught his shoulders and held Doyle away from him.
"We can't just keep doing this to get rid of the visions. We need to
find out what's causing them to begin with."
Doyle jerked away from him, burying his face in his hands. There was
one long, hitched breath and he looked up again. Probably a little
drunk, Angel could smell a trace of liquor, beneath it his own
shampoo and then just Doyle. That something strange that he'd
smelled on him before, that he hadn't quite placed but as he inhaled
it again, it clicked in his head, an ancient key in an old lock.
Heavy and salt, oddly reminiscent of mown hay, Doyle smelled like
semen, like he'd jerked off in the car on the way here, and maybe he
had, maybe it helped stave off the visions or maybe that was just
the reaction he had to them.
They'd already done it once..."All right, for tonight. But tomorrow
we figure this out."
"You got it, man," Relief smoothed lines on Doyle's face that Angel
hadn't even noticed until they were gone.
He didn't carry Doyle to the bed this time, giving in to that urge
to simply push him against the back of the sofa. For just a moment,
he let himself press his face into the curve of Doyle's neck and
inhaled, salt-sweet skin that he didn't dare taste, the thrum of the
blood beneath it and the hot scent of fear, trembling in the air.
"It's all right," he murmured, felt Doyle shudder when his lips
brushed his neck. Quickly, he changed tactics, sliding up to lick at
Doyle's ear. That was too much of a guilty pleasure, and wasn't he
indulging in enough?
Doyle's hands were between them, fumbling at his shirt and Angel
helped him pull it over his head, leaving hard, smooth skin free for
the touching. This was so different from being with a woman, even as
a soulless vampire. Darla had been demanding in her own right,
wanting the sweet coaxing that all women seemed to crave and for all
her insanity, Dru had been much the same. And Buffy--he didn't want
to think about Buffy.
Doyle hardly needed any coaxing, already hard against Angel's thigh
and Angel caught him by the hips and lifted, grinding them together.
The couch skittered on the hard floor and they followed it, until it
hit the wall, the sudden jolt making them both gasp.
"Can you quit messing around and just do it?" Doyle hissed, shoving
Angel back as he fought to get his pants undone.
Stung, Angel stepped away. "I'm sorry but sacrificial lambs lost
their appeal a few decades ago." He opened his own pants more
slowly, kicking them off to reveal he wasn't quite as ready as Doyle
wanted him to be. Vampire blood was more sluggish than a human's,
without a heartbeat to push it along, it was less eager to flow to
areas that really needed it.
He fought the urge to flinch at Doyle's critical look. "Yeah, no one
gives a decent gift these days."
Angel didn't even have a chance to flinch as Doyle sank to his
knees, and, God, practically inhaled his cock, and if he was hot
elsewhere the wet suction of his mouth could have melted steel.
At the moment, it was forging it instead, warm hands sliding down
the back of Angel's thighs as Doyle sucked him in deeply. As long as
it had been between blowjobs, he could still register Doyle's
clumsiness, trying to work his tongue around the thickness of
Angel's cock in his mouth but he was sucking like the survival of
the world was hinged on his ability to deep-throat. Angel felt the
wood frame of the sofa splintering beneath his grip and couldn't
make himself let go because Doyle's mouth was brutal and cruel and
better he break the sofa than accidentally take off Doyle's head.
He actually cried out at the loss as Doyle let him go, the air
suddenly cold on his wet skin. The half-demon scrambled to his feet,
bracing his arms against the sofa back, on either side of Angel's.
"Now do it," Doyle panted, his head lowered. It gave Angel a brief
glimpse of wet, reddened lips and then he was ghosting a hand down
Doyle's back, and lower.
"Wait, I need--"
"No, you don't. Do it!"
He was shaking so hard he had to try twice to position himself and
Doyle was right, he was already slick inside which meant he'd done
it before he came over tonight. One long, hard glide inside and gray
sparkled in Angel's vision, the heat of him scalding against Angel's
cooler skin.
Doyle choked out a sound, something Angel couldn't even try to
understand and he forced himself to keep it gentle, battering the
demon within him back. No, he told it fiercely, I'm doing this, and
I'm not going to hurt him again.
Braced on one hand, Angel slid the other over Doyle's chest,
slippery wet with sweat and then lower, exploring without a hint of
yesterday's hesitancy. Between his legs, crisp hair and the
heaviness of his balls in Angel's palm and he felt more than heard
Doyle gasp, one hand flailing at Angel's arm to stop him.
Deliberately, Angel pushed hard into him, forcing Doyle to brace
himself with both arms to keep from smashing his face into the back
of the sofa. "I told you, no sacrificial lambs," he whispered into
Doyle's ear before sliding his tongue over it, wet and nasty and got
a harsh cry in response.
He couldn't stop now, hunching his hips in quick, stilted thrusts.
The angle was bad and he could see little drops of sweat clinging to
the ends of Doyle's dark hair, splattering down onto skin as each
push rocked into him.
One of Doyle's hands was over his on the sofa, short nails digging
in until there was a fresh scent spilling into the air, blood, and
Angel couldn't stop the demon from showing itself on his face but he
could keep it from hurting Doyle, even as he was losing it beneath
him, throwing his head back against Angel's shoulder as he cried out
and came. That same painful heat pouring over Angel's hand, the
smell of it fresh and heavy in his sinuses, and his senses
overloaded as he wondering what it might taste like, if it was the
same sea flavor as the scent. Orgasm was almost too pale a word for
it, coming for what felt like a small eternity and, God it was good,
too good, wicked and wonderful.
For a long moment Angel forgot he didn't have to breathe, the feel
of Doyle's heart hammering against his hand like a memory of being
human. He pressed his face between Doyle's shoulder blades and
willed it into smoother lines before he pulled back, just a little.
Not out, because his body was still pulsing with it, and he should
pull away because this wasn't what either of them had really wanted
but it had still been...
...so good.
"Are you all right?" Angel managed to whisper. His voice was a dry
rasp and he swallowed hard, trying to work some moisture into his
mouth. Doyle was completely still beneath him, his face buried in
his arms, didn't even make a sound as Angel finally withdrew. Panic
flashed through him, that despite his best efforts he'd hurt his
friend anyway, and Angel touched him gingerly, softly, "Doyle?"
"Why did you do that?" Barely a whisper, muffled into Doyle's arms.
"I--" Angel hesitated, feeling that same nakedness he had the night
before. "I did what you asked me to do."
"No." Doyle straightened, pulling away from Angel's touch. "No, I
just wanted you to fuck me. I didn't mean I wanted you to make me--"
He choked off the words and closed his eyes.
"Make you what?" It was slowly coming into focus and Angel could
only stare at his friend disbelievingly. "Made you like it?" Doyle
shuddered, wrapped his arms tightly around himself. "That's...what are
you talking about? If you have to be here anyway, you may as well
enjoy it, right?"
"No," Doyle whispered, eyes still closed. "It's not right at all."
He moved slowly, stooping to pick up his clothes without looking
once at Angel, walking around him as though he were a lamp or a
chair, before walking silently into the bathroom. He shut the door
behind him and Angel heard the lock click.
Angel stood in the middle of the shambles of his living room, his
own clothes still scattered at his feet, the evidence drying on the
back of the mostly ruined sofa. The water sprang on in the bathroom
and he listened to Doyle showering, washing away the sex as quickly
as he could.
Well, fuck.
Chapter Three
He'd always thought he'd seen the worst in his lifetime. During his
time, Angel had seen war and plague, famine and filth. He had seen
death in flowing rivers of blood, a greater portion of it inflicted
by him. He'd slaughtered the friends of the love of his life,
tortured her mentor and seen the burning pits of Hell itself.
Somehow, none of it had prepared him for listening to a Kroyak demon
singing 'Jumping Jack Flash'. Singing being used in the loosest
sense of the word.
The demon was gamely honking its way through the song and not
altogether poorly when you considered that it didn't have what could
be called a working mouth. Otherwise, Angel suspected that the
thinning crowd would consist of one vampire and one half-demon,
possibly the bartender. The owner of this bar would probably make a
fortune selling earplugs at the door.
Angel took a sip from his drink, barely enough to taste the liquor.
He'd been nursing this same glass since they got there a few hours
ago and it was just barely half-full. The other side of the table
was littered with smaller glasses, empty of the double shots that
had been in each one. It barely seemed to have affected Doyle. He
was sitting quietly, watching the Kroyak like this was a
particularly good off-Broadway play.
The rest of the patrons were watching with varying degrees of
disinterest/polite attention. Angel gamely tried not to notice the
various demons around them; at least half he would have killed if
he'd bumped into them on the street. There was something surreal and
disturbing about just sitting here with them drinking their various
liquors and other fluids. He grimaced, squeezing the glass in his
hand until he felt it start to tremor on the breaking point. Or not
maybe not so surreal. More like a memory from the past century,
buying a drink for a pretty girl and leading her away to a darker
corner.
A particularly sour note had Angel rubbing his temples, trying to
look at Doyle without seeming to look at him. They'd barely spoken since Doyle had left the night before, his clothes clinging to
him and his hair still dripping from the shower. He'd walked to the
elevator steadily enough and just before he closed the door, he'd
looked up, his pale face all dark hair and eyes. Then he was gone,
without saying a word.
Angel wondered if it had made it hard to come back tonight. He'd
been expecting Doyle, of course he had, had spent the entire day
trying to think of something to say. Something reasonable and
gentle, something that would help Doyle stay calm until the figured
out what they could do about this. Something that wouldn't draw
attention to the fact that Angel got hard any time he remembered
what'd they'd done. Insane hormones aside, they couldn't keep on
like this.
It was this strained silence that was the worst of it, hurting him
more than he would have considered. When he'd first come to LA,
Angel hadn't realized how lonely he had been, how desperate for
company before Doyle had put in his unexpected appearance. Somewhere
between his easy smile and his laidback attitude, he'd become a
friend. More than any amount of sex, no matter what his body thought
about it, he wanted his friend back, and the thought that this
bizarre aberration in their relationship had ruined their friendship
didn't bear thinking about.
This whole situation was making his head ache worse than the
singing.
Doyle was getting a fresh drink from the waitress, another glass
brimming with whiskey, and Angel made a mental note to ask her about
the tab. The very least he could do was pay the bill, even though it
looked like Doyle wasn't a very cheap date. His mind shied from the
word 'date' and went back to the matter at hand; staring at Doyle
without letting him know about it.
It wasn't that difficult. Doyle was slouched back in his chair,
drink in hand, and he never looked away from the stage. Now it was a
Y'rrk demon, singing a decent version of 'Proud Mary', her damp
proboscis curling up and down to the beat.
He wondered idly where
Doyle found those shirts he always wore. Tonight he was wearing the
one he'd had one when they'd met, brilliantly red to Angel's eyes
and it drew him automatically in the most primal of ways. Strange
how he knew in his head vampires were drawn to bright colors and
yet, knowing it didn't make it easier to resist. His eyes always
strayed back to that shirt, the mesmerizing pull of it.
Doyle seemed to have a never ending collection of those bright, ugly
shirts. Maybe it was just part of his destiny to follow strange men
with a poor sense of fashion. Then again, he'd never had to sleep
with Whistler.
A hand appeared on the back of Doyle's chair and Angel stiffened,
resisting the urge to remove it physically. Doyle had told him
before they got here, his voice stilted and his eyes down, that
there was someone at this bar who might be able to give them some
insight on the situation. They probably wouldn't be as willing to
help if Angel removed their arm. The arm in question was attached to
a demon of a type Angel didn't recognize, green with red eyes and in
a suit that made Doyle's clothes look sedate in comparison. He
smiled down at Doyle, swirling the sweet-scented drink in his other
hand. "I was wondering when we'd see you again. You didn't stay for
the encore last time."
Even after their long wait, Doyle didn't seem eager to chat. He kept
his eyes on his drink, downing the last of it before he managed,
"What, you didn't know I'd be back?"
The demon laughed lightly. "Well, someone's in a mood tonight,
aren't we." He shook his head and moved to sit across from them,
lounging in the chair easily. Setting his drink aside, he reached
out took Doyle's hand in both of his own, squeezing gently. Angel
ground his teeth and looked away. Instincts, he told himself.
Vampires were notoriously fickle about sharing and his demon seemed
to think Doyle was his. Better to tame it back now before it started
wanting him to go shopping for matching bloodstained his and his
towels.
Their host's expression was filled with a worrying amount of
sympathy. "Doyle, honey, shamrock, much as I appreciate how good you
are for business," he circled a finger over the rim of one of the
numerous glasses and a wavering note rang out. "You're wasting your
time."
"Can't tell me what I need to know," Doyle said tiredly. He looked
somehow smaller, hunching into himself and it was difficult not to
touch, to soothe. Angel resisted the urge, uncertain as to how Doyle
would take it and realized that before all this he never would have
hesitated. It made the ache in his chest sharpen.
"Of course I can, but I'm not the only one who's taken a sip from
the foretelling pool. Sweetie, you already know what I'm going to
say." The demon's eyes were surprisingly gentle and met Doyle's
steadily. "You just don't want to hear me say it."
Doyle's mouth tightened and he pulled his hand free to stumble off
in the direction of the bar. Angel started to go after him but a
hand on his arm gave him pause, gesturing for him to stay sitting.
Slowly, Angel lowered himself back into his chair. The demon sighed
and shook his head. "Sweet kid, but once he gets that temper up." He
clicked his tongue in dismay. "Well, big guy, it doesn't look like
he wants to dish to you."
"What do you mean?"
The demon gave him a wry smile. "If he'd told you everything, do you
really think you'd be here right now?"
Fair enough. "So can you tell me what's going on?"
"I could. For a song." Angel looked at him blankly and he rolled his
eyes, gesturing to a waitress, "Dee, get me a refill and I'll be
yours for life. Look, here's the way it works," he explained
patiently. "You get up on stage and sing me a little tune, and I
give you a little insider information on your problem."
There wasn't a description for the terror that idea filled him with.
He'd almost rather spent five minutes in a tanning bed because at
least then the pain would end quickly if a little dusty. Something
niggled in his memory, the demon's perplexing conversation with
Doyle. "But you said Doyle already knows what's going on. I could
just wait for him to tell me."
The host laughed. "Got me there big guy. I was wondering if you'd
catch it. Tell you what, I'm getting to like you, so instead of
making you wait for short, dark, and pissed over there, I'll fill
you in. The Powers are afraid you might get distracted by a pretty
face while you're busy with the hero bit, so they decided to give
you and Doyle something to do. To keep you," he coughed delicately.
"Occupied."
"That's ridiculous," Angel sputtered. Wonderful, now he had cosmic
forces governing his relationships as well as his life in general.
He wondered if he'd be better off leaving out an organizer for them
to fill at their leisure. He leaned closer, whispering fiercely, "I
don't have any plans on getting involved with anyone. I help people
and I read books. I don't date."
"And I'm sure your last relationship went exactly as you planned
it," the demon replied dryly. He raised his hands defensively when
Angel would have burst out a reply. "Calm down, lover, I don't know
a bit about it but I've been at this gig a little while now. You
don't get to peek at the various auras of worlds without realizing
that happily ever after is only good in Hollywood. And this is LA,
honey."
He sighed deeply and looked up at the stage, eyes resting briefly on
the latest singer. "We're going to have to speed things up a bit. To
shorten an already long story, they started to send the visions to
your walking satellite dish over there to get the two of you between
the sheets."
"But why Doyle? Neither of us are...gay." He stumbled over the word
and was glad he couldn't blush.
The demon shrugged. "I can only give you the condiments; I can't
make the whole enchilada for you. I can tell you this," His voice
became one of apologetic sympathy. "If you two don't keep doing the
horizontal mambo, the visions will keep coming." Rising, the demon
patted Angel on one shoulder before adding, "Good luck, and stop by
again."
Angel sat there for a little longer, listening to the last chorus of
'Crimson and Clover.' Then he stood up and went to look for his
friend.
He was easy enough to find, slouched against the bar with a drink in
his hand. For the first time that night, there was still liquor in
it, and Doyle was twisting it in his hands, watching the tiny waves
against the sides of the glass. The seat next to him wasn't empty
but the vampire sitting in it vacated quickly when Angel looked at
him. He sat down next to Doyle and watched him toy with the glass,
and couldn't think of anything to say.
He settled on a banal, "Are you all right?", wincing at how weak it
sounded.
"Am I all right?" Doyle laughed, the sound hard and bitter. "Am I
all right. You know, I don't believe I am all right, and do you
wanna hear why?" He slammed the glass down on the bar, a wash of
liquid spilling unnoticed over his hand. "Because I love women," he
said fiercely. "Small ones and big ones and anythin' in between! I
love tits and strip clubs but because the Powers That Fucking Be
seem to think it's for the best," he spat. "I have to spend
my nights bending over for you, playing drop the soap!"
Doyle looked around, suddenly noticing the entire bar was silent and
staring at him. "What?" he snarled, "None of you have problems?" He
snatched his coat off the bar and stormed off towards the door,
demons parting the way in front of him like water.
Angel wished very, very much that changing into a bat had really
been part of the vampire package. He managed a weak smile for the
demons still staring at him and after a moment, the music slowly
wavered back into existence. Picking up the abandoned glass, he
tossed back the rest of Doyle's drink, choking briefly on the cheap
scotch.
"Can I get another?" he called to the bartender. She shuffled over
to him, her one eye glistening and wary, and set the bottle on the
counter.
"Keep it."
He was surprised to find Doyle sitting in his living room when he
got home, although perhaps he shouldn't have been. The slightly
abused sofa was back in it's normal spot, scrubbed fresh with
Resolve. Doyle was sitting in one of the side chairs, his head
tilted back so he could stare unblinking at the ceiling.
Angel walked past him and hung up his coat. He was trying not to
linger at it, hating this unbearable awkwardness. Back in the living
room, he sat in the chair across from Doyle's because he always
seemed to loom when he was standing.
"I thought you went home," Angel said finally, quietly.
Doyle made a sound that might have been a tired laugh. "Why bother?
We both know I'd be back. Least this way I don't need to find
another parking space." He traced a slow pattern on the leather arm
of the chair with the tip of a finger, dreamy and slow. "He told
you, didn't he."
Angel didn't see any point in denying it. "Yeah."
"Yeah," Doyle breathed slowly. "Saw him the other night and I knew
he knew, I just--" He closed his eyes and shook his head.
"Look," Angel raked a hand through his hair, tearing through
gel-crisp tangles. "Shouldn't we make the best of this? I mean, I'm
not really looking forward to having to do this every night for
however long they expect us to do it, but--"
Doyle cut him off with a laugh, and it was like the creaking of
branches, rattling with ice. "No? You're the one who gets to take a
vacation up the back road every night."
He shouldn't have been so shocked, hurt, even as it made guilt
blossom in him, because hadn't he enjoyed it, wanted it again..."I'm
not any more comfortable with this than you are," Angel said,
harsher than he'd intended. "But I don't understand why you're
so...this isn't my fault, Doyle. What do you want me to do?" Doyle
just stared at him, something like hate in his eyes and, God, that
hurt, and how was this supposed to keep him from being
distracted from his mission. "You want to come here and make me rape
you every night, is that it?"
"Make you rape me. I like that." There was a flicker of red in
Doyle's eyes, a reminder of his demon ancestry and for a minute
Angel thought Doyle was going to attack him. Wished he would, wished
they could just do it and get it over with. He'd always been better
at battling with his hands than with words. But Doyle wasn't
finished, too much pain from the past week boiling into his words.
"It's not your fault? Bullshit to that, if you're not the star of
this fucking movie then who is? It's sure not me. You're the hero,
babe," he sneered. "You're the one who's special. I'm just the
little sidekick fucktoy."
It drew the rising anger out of him like a puncture wound, leaving
him empty and tired, and Angel looked away, pressed a shaking hand
to his forehead. A soft touch startled him and he looked up to see
Doyle standing in front him. His eyes were bloodshot, the red in
them this time from simple exhaustion and humanity. He looked lost
and this was the Francis in him, so rarely seen, the one who looked
barely old enough to legally buy beer, the schoolteacher whose life
took a turn. He pulled his hand from Angel's arm and shoved both
hands into his pockets, his eyes never leaving Angel's.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I had no right to say that." Angel was
reminded of the first time he'd met Doyle, his easy honesty so long
as it was nothing to do with himself.
"Yes, you did. You're right, you are here because of me."
Doyle snorted and rolled his eyes, slouching back into his chair.
"Yeah, maybe, but not directly, like. I doubt you yelled to the
heavens that you wanted a half-demon to make squooshing noises with
at night." Doyle shot him a look of amused doubtfulness. "Did you?"
Angel smiled, a little. "No, I think I'd remember that." They sat in
silence, more comfortable than not and Angel felt some of his
tension easing, seeping out of him slowly and taking the beginnings
of his headache with it. It finally occurred to him to ask a
question he'd wondered about before. "How long have you been having
these visions?"
Doyle didn't answer for a long time and Angel was beginning to think
he'd fallen asleep when finally, "I had the first one just after we
met. Wasn't so bad then. I'd get one every few weeks, brush it off.
This last week though..." he shuddered silently.
The soft call of his pain pulled Angel to his feet and he moved
slowly, sliding across the floor until he was kneeling at Doyle's
feet. His eyes were unreadable but he didn't flinch when Angel laid
tentative hands on his knees. He put his own hands over them and
they moved restlessly, uncertain as to whether they were pushing
away or not.
"Atonements a tough thing," Doyle said with weak humor. "But I never
expected I'd be putting gay half-demon seer on my resume, you know?"
"You're not gay."
"No?" he shook his head. "No, I know. It's just...I've been getting
better at all this, what with living in California and all but where
I grew up if there was even a hint that you were getting pelvic with
another guy--"
"Doyle, no one has to know about this."
"'cepting all the demons that do." He brightened. "But not Cordy,
right?"
"Not Cordy," Angel agreed, watching the flex of Doyle's throat as he
swallowed. His lips were chapped and dry, and his tongue flicked out
to wet them as Angel leaned in.
Doyle flinched, pulling back. "No, I can't...not..."
No kissing, all right, then. Instead, he laid his head on Doyle's
chest, listening to the speeding flutter of his heart. His shirt
stank of cigarettes and whiskey and sweat, of reality, no sweetly
perfumed flesh here and he pressed a kiss against it, felt the startlement in the body beneath him. Didn't care.
Silence was as good as permission and it was easy to flick open all
the buttons, careful not to tear the shirt that he was growing
fonder of every time he saw it. Red and red, parted to show white
flesh beneath it and here was better, crisp hair against his chin.
Much better, all the same smells but more underneath it. He could
taste the first faint flickers of lust and that was good.
He felt Doyle inhale sharply as he moved on to the fly of his pants,
easing down the zipper but still no protest. He had to trust Doyle
to tell him to stop if he didn't want something, fast losing his own
capacity to do so. The want that had been hammering at the bars
within him was howling now in the back of his head, demanding that
he do it, do something, do it, do it, doit.
Easy to slip his hands into the opening of Doyle's pants, felt him
gasp at the coolness against his own hot skin. "Have you done
anything like this before?" he murmured, already knowing the answer,
wanting to hear it anyway.
"Angel," Doyle laughed weakly. "I hadn't done more than stand on the
same carpet as another man before we started up."
"Mmmhmmm," Angel mumbled, pressing his face against Doyle's belly.
He hadn't done much more than that, certainly not this, but the
smell had been tempting him for days, since before he known what it
was. He pushed Doyle's pants down a little more, felt him lift up a
bit and try to help.
Angel let his eyes drift shut as he leaned in, let Doyle's cock
paint a line of scalding wetness down his cheek as he rubbed softly
against it. He could smell the blood, feel the pulse of it and was
barely tempted. He'd been craving a taste of something else, laid
the flat of his tongue against soft, soft skin and finally got it.
Doyle made a sound that he ignored, lost in the explosion of flavor
across his tongue, and he wanted more. Took it deeper, let it glide
slowly into his mouth. Strong flavor, rasping over his tongue and he
sucked automatically, trying to get more.
"Christ!" Doyle's knees jackknifed up on either side of his head,
accidentally pulling him down hard, and Angel was briefly glad he
couldn't choke. Sucking, right, he was a vampire, suction he could
do. Apparently, Doyle agreed, strangling out a shout, his hands
scrabbling to clench into Angel's hair.
It was easy like this, with his eyes closed, and his hands clenched
into fists, resting against Doyle's hips. Not holding him still
just, holding, and he whimpered, actually whimpered a protest when
Doyle pulled him off.
"Come on," he whispered, not quite into Angel's mouth, and pulled
him along. Until they were in the bedroom and he could push Doyle
down into the blankets, on his stomach and they both made sounds
there in the dark, the bed creaking with them and the light wavered
over sweat-slick skin like candlelight as Angel came to the sound of
his own name on someone else's lips, almost like a prayer.
Apparently, when he wasn't dropping into unconsciousness or running
out the door, Doyle was fairly chatty after sex. Angel didn't mind,
lazily stroking his back and listening to Doyle talk. About his
hometown, the dog he'd had when he was twelve, coming to the states;
about what it was like to teach young children their letters and
numbers; about the demons they'd fought the week before; about the
new movie he'd been meaning to see, with that actress whose name
Angel didn't recognize. A literal gush of information that made him
smile and just listen, answering the occasional query.
One question made him pause. "Have you ever done this before?"
Curiously.
"What, have sex with someone by the order of otherworldly beings?"
he asked dryly. "Not as often as you'd think."
He jumped when Doyle bit him, actually sank his teeth into Angel's
chest. It made his cock leap to attention with embarrassing
eagerness and Angel shifted so the sheet hid it better. It was one
thing to have sex once a night on demand; asking for seconds was
pushing it.
"I meant, have you ever been involved with another guy." Doyle was
looking at him with great interest, apparently unperturbed by the
thought that Angel might have been sleeping around with most of the
men in Europe back in the day.
"Why is it that everyone thinks that about vampires these days?"
Angel mused aloud to the ceiling. "Nobody used to ask me that." He
frowned. "Of course, I didn't talk to people so much back then as--"
"Right, right, the good old bad days," Doyle interrupted, rolling
his eyes. He shifted up so he was lying on Angel's chest, resting
his chin on his folded hands. "Does that mean no?"
Angel shifted uncomfortably. "I may have, um, experimented a time or
two," he admitted. "There was this one time with Spike." He yelped
when Doyle bit him again, harder.
"Details would be a no," he said with a shudder. "I was just
curious."
"Why?" Angel asked. "Have you?" Softly mocking because Doyle had
answered this question once and he blinked in surprise when the
answer changed.
"No more than a kiss, and that was because...never mind," Doyle
muttered. Reluctantly intrigued, Angel lifted his head to look at
Doyle better. He was blushing hotly.
"Because why?"
"I was trying not to come here, all right? Thought maybe if I, you
know, got the rocks off with another guy it would help." He shrugged
a little, ducking his head. "Changed my mind before I went through
with it though."
"Your lip," Angel said slowly, remembering. "He hit you."
"Yeah, got me a good one," Doyle said ruefully. "But never fear, I
fell down and had a ruddy awful vision and that scared the bejesus
out of him. Took off and left me there and--hey, easy, man!"
With a bit of effort, Angel managed to force his demon face back.
Doyle was looking at him with alarm, not quite as comfortable to be
lying naked with a vampire as he had been a few minutes ago.
It hadn't been intentional, just thinking of some bastard punching
Doyle, leaving him there convulsing on the ground while he gasped in
pain. He could see it clearly for a moment, the sweat trailing down
Doyle's face as he shook and that other man, the unknown one turning
his back and running. Maybe afraid he'd done the damage and so he'd
left him there to possibly die while he saved his own skin.
He was losing it again and Doyle was watching him with increasing
nervousness, looking like he was half a minute from scrambling into
his pants and out the door. Angel gave him what he hoped was an
apologetic look and after a moment, he crawled back. Angel pulled
him against his chest and ran a soothing hand down his back,
stroking him until he relaxed, his breathing even and deep. He
thought Doyle was asleep until he spoke again, his breath warm on
Angel's skin.
"Cordy was right," he said sleepily.
"You're in my bed thinking about Cordelia?" Angel asked, amused.
"Mmmhmm. Don't worry, you're too tall for role playing. Said you
were cuddly for a vampire, didn't she? She was right; you've been
petting me like a hound dog for twenty minutes." Embarrassed, Angel
started to pull away. "Didn't say you should stop," he yawned. A few
minutes later, Angel knew he was asleep. It didn't take long for him
to follow, drowsing slowly as he stroked Doyle's back and
simply enjoyed having someone who cared, at least a little, so close
to him.
Chapter Four
For the inexperienced eye, it was difficult to tell the difference
between brooding and boredom. Both had the same expression, gazing
into the faraway, and the same posture, although the brief game of
solo paperclip football was probably a clue. Since the brief but
intense debate on whether a pencil could be used as a toy was
completely internal, most people would never see the difference.
In the end, it was determined that it was too close to a stake for
true enjoyment.
Doyle had been gone that morning when he woke but Angel wasn't
worried; he'd be back eventually and then Angel could try the new
recipe he'd found yesterday in the newspaper. He seemed to recall
being quite fond of scones when he'd been alive, although he wasn't
entirely sure. Spending a few centuries not eating did make cooking
a little more complex. He was completely absorbed in the puzzle of
the scone recipe, not brooding, although again, most people would
never guess the difference.
And then there was Cordelia, who saw neither as she burst into the
office. "Angel! I need you to--get off the floor? What are you doing
down there?"
He didn't dignify it with a response, just righted his chair and sat
back down. Cordelia, never one to spare the dignity of others,
raised an eyebrow at him. "Spider senses offline today?
"I thought you guys liked to compare me to Batman."
"Excuse me if my geekatude isn't tuned to the right station for you.
Now, I need you to do something for me." She straightened up and
cleared her throat, her cue for 'paying attention mode'. Angel tried
to look interested, though he suspected that interested was yet
another expression of his that looked rather like the others. Just
as well if she couldn't tell the difference between interest and
wariness. If this was another of her auditions it paid, with
interest, to be prepared.
Even so, the sight of her throwing herself back against the
doorjamb, moaning and writhing, rubbing her hands over her hips and
thighs, was unexpected. She finished with a loud, moaning chorus of,
"Yes, yes, yes!" throwing her head back as she slid down to the
floor.
Angel stared.
Cordelia bounced to her feet and looked expectant. "Well, what did
you think?"
"I--" Angel couldn't seem to close his mouth enough to form a
coherent answer. Was it normal for women to test out their fake
orgasm skills with their guy friends before--he didn't even want to
think about it. That was it, this past week had been entirely too
strange. There must have been a spell and he had fallen into an
alternate Hell universe where everything had to do with sex.
It was a step up from the last Hell he'd visited, he had to admit.
"Angel! I'm trying out for the new Herbal Essences commercial
today," Cordelia told him impatiently.
Of course she was. "And that is?"
"Shampoo?! God, don't you ever watch TV? I've got a great chance for
this one, look at this." She swung her head with practiced ease so
that her hair fell in a sweeping cascade over one shoulder. "I've
got the perfect hair for it. Oh, God!" She looked suddenly
horrified. "Do you think if you get the spot, you actually have to
use the shampoo?"
"Do people really think all vampires are bisexual?" He hadn't meant
to ask that. Angel was very sure of it. He'd meant to nod politely
whenever Cordelia required it and hope that she never needed more
than a yes or no answer, and to make a mental note to never try
Herbal Essence shampoo. He certainly never meant to ask Cordelia
anything that would add to the weird sex aura that had been hanging
around the office, even if the question had been sitting in the back
of his mind since the night before.
She stared at him and Angel was somewhat bemused to see he'd
actually managed to shock her. In all too brief a time, she
recovered enough to say, "You're not?"
"Cordelia!" Current issues aside, he didn't really think he seemed
all that bisexual. How did bisexual people seem, anyway?
"Well, you always dress so well and your hair! I mean, if you were
rich, sure you'd look that good but considering you don't have a
reflection, we're talking serious effort. Plus, there's that whole
Interview with a Vampire thing."
"The what?" he asked, bewildered.
"And you know that Louis and Lestat were so doing it. Straight men
so do not suck on the necks of other straight men even if it is for
a snack."
Angel stared at her.
"You!" She stabbed an immaculately-painted incriminating finger at
him. "You were going to eat that guy on the swim team before."
He made a face. "I remember that, he tasted like spoiled anchovies."
"Okay, being friends with a vampire has made me understand that on
occasion we will talk about repulsive things. You can talk about
drinking blood but the moment you start telling me about the
bouquet, we are so finished. Oh, and you dressed more like an
eighties hair band when you were evil, so that right there gives you
the whole, 'oooh, I'll sleep with anything' vibe."
Like a poorly dressed savior from embarrassing conversations, Doyle
wandered into the office, tossing his coat on the chair inside the
door. He looked well rested and freshly showered, and smiled easily
at them both as he poured a cup of the dubious coffee. Angel
resisted the urge to knock it out of his hands before he could
poison himself with it once again. He really did need to make sure
Cordelia knew CPR. Doyle raised the styrofoam cup in a sort of mock
toast. "Hey, all."
It was a shame that Cordelia didn't recognize a savior when she saw
one. "Doyle, do you think all vampires are bisexual?" Cordelia asked
seriously as he took a drink.
Doyle promptly inhaled his first sip. For the first moment, he
couldn't even cough, struggling to inhale enough air to expel the
caffeinated strangler. He was an alarming shade of red when he
finally got the first cough out and he fumbled to set the cup on the
small table before he dropped it, splashing hot liquid over the back
of his hand. Angel lunged forward and rescued it before it could do
any more damage, shoving it back on the counter.
"Cordy, get him a glass of water," Angel ordered, relieved when she
didn't argue.
Doyle was wheezing more than coughing, going from red to more of a
maroon shade as he tried to suck in a breath. Angel hovered next to
him anxiously, finally giving him a firm slap on the back that
nearly sent him to the floor. With a barely managed glare, Doyle
backed away, still coughing, holding out his burned hand to keep
Angel back.
"Water!" Cordy darted in between them and thrust the glass at Doyle,
sending a shower down the front of his clothes. He snatched the
glass away and downed it, and finally the coughing fit dwindled into
pained breathing. Doyle wiped sweat from his forehead with a shaky
hand, glaring at them both.
"Next time I'm choking to death?" he rasped. "Let me die, yeah?"
Angel looked away, embarrassed. "Right."
"Yeah, yeah, sure," Cordelia dismissed it with the wave of a hand.
"Well, what do you think?"
"What do I think what?"
She rolled her eyes. "It nearly killed you and you don't remember?
Are all vampires bisexual, duh?"
"Oh." He looked uncomfortable and glanced at Angel, who tried for an
innocent look. If he wasn't careful, he was going to go through his
entire repertoire of expressions in one day. "I never much thought
about it. Mostly they just turn to dust when we meet 'em, we don't
really chat often." His expression turned thoughtful. "I did see
Interview with a Vampire, though."
"Oooh, and Louis and Lestat were sooo doing it!"
"No, I thought it was Louis and the other fella, um, the Antonio
Banderas guy."
"Of course they were, but Louis and Lestat did it first."
"Is this a movie?" Angel interrupted, loudly.
Cordelia glanced at him. "Actually, it's a book but they made it a
movie."
"Wonderful. Having lived as a vampire and around other vampires does
give me a little perspective on this so maybe you should, I don't
know. Ask me?"
"You're the one who asked me!" Cordy snorted, flopping into the
chair in front of the desk.
"I asked if you thought they were bisexual, not if they were."
"Well, are they?"
"No!"
"Oh. Cause I always thought that Spike was sort of..."
Angel squirmed. "Spike is sort of--"
"And Drusilla was creepy but she liked eating girls."
"Dru's different, she--"
"And you, what about you?"
"Me?"
"Even Doyle said he thought you were attractive."
"Now wait a second," Doyle sputtered, not at all pleased to be
brought back into the conversation.
"Are you bisexual?" Cordelia asked with great interest.
"I--" The phone rang and cut him off. Cordy squealed and ran to
answer it. Angel buried his face in his arms and thanked the Powers
That Be for small favors. He peeked out over his arms to see Doyle
standing in front of his desk, arms crossed over his chest and
looking rather pissed.
"This is your way of not telling Cordelia?" he hissed, shooting a
wary look at the outer office where Cordy was chatting with what
sounded like one of her Cordettes.
"It was an accident?" His voice was muffled into his sweater.
Doyle blew out a loud breath, gave his cup a coffee a disgusted look
before tossing it in the trash. "Could we not have any more
accidents, please?"
"Right." Angel remembered something and lifted his head to look at
Doyle with a faint grin. "You think I'm attractive?"
It was almost made the last five minutes worth living to see the
flush of embarrassment sweep over Doyle's face. "That
was...er...sorry I ran out on you this morning," he said hurriedly,
fingering the front of his damp shirt. This one had a sort of beige
paisley design that was a kind of ugly not normally seen in the
light of day. Not that Angel knew much about that. "But I figured
even Cordelia would eventually notice I'm wearing the same clothes
day after day."
"If it has to do with clothes, she is sure to notice," Angel agreed,
still looking at Doyle's shirt and wondered about the red one. He
didn't recall him wearing it much before, how often did Doyle
circulate through his shirts? Just the bright red against such pale
skin, the right contrast of color to his eyes, so enticing--Christ,
was he sitting here mooning over one of Doyle's shirts?
They really needed a client.
Doyle was slouched back in his chair with his eyes closed but he
opened one a slit when Angel stood up to glance outside the door.
Cordelia was still chatting, her back to them and, somewhat
self-consciously, Angel shut the door. Now he had Doyle's full
attention, suspicious as it was.
This was infinitely worse than fighting any kind of demons, even the
slimey ones. "How did you sleep last night," Angel blurted, trying
to keep his voice low. Was he even allowed to ask here in the
office? They'd never discussed any rules, hadn't discussed much of
anything really. Just a mostly unspoken agreement to go along with
the visions.
But how could they not talk about it? Angel wasn't sure he could do
that, not when he couldn't even stop thinking about it. He'd scented
Doyle a bare second before he'd walked in the door, the mixture of
shampoo and deodorant so oddly familiar, though Angel couldn't
remember when he'd learned it. If Doyle wanted to forget during the
day, Angel could never fault him for it, but he wasn't sure he could
do the same.
"Slept like a baby," Doyle said easily, shattering all his worries
with a single sentence. "Not a peep of a vision. In fact," Doyle
stretched and his joints popped faintly. "I think I slept better
last night than I have since I started having visions. What kind of
mattress do you have?"
"A Serta, it came with the bed frame. Do you think the visions mean
a, um," Angel suddenly found the tiles floor very interesting, "An
every night thing or just--"
"I don't know," Doyle looked at him steadily. "If you want to test
it--"
"No," Angel said hurriedly. "I just--I just don't want to make this
harder than it already is." He held his hands out in a vague gesture
of helplessness.
"Doubt you could. Look, I know I've been a prick about this--shut it,
and let me talk," he said when Angel would have protested. "But I
really do appreciate that you're helping. You could have said no."
No, I couldn't. Angel would never say it to him, never wanted to see
the brightness of his eyes dimmed with guilt that he knew Doyle
would feel. It was all right, he could do this and he'd never tell
Doyle how badly he wanted to push him over this desk right now and
see those same eyes shining so briefly with lust before they closed
tightly like they always did, just before he came.
Instead, Angel kept his gaze on the floor and asked, softly, "What
do you see when you have a vision?"
"Aside from my brain turning inside out?" Doyle tried to laugh and
it faded into a sigh. He crossed his arms over his chest as if he
felt a chill.
"The first time I had one, I thought I was dying," Doyle said
softly. "Some kind of stroke, maybe..." he trailed off with a shrug
that held a wealth of some unknown emotion and Angel could almost
seem him pulling inward, hiding something as he settled for partial
truth. "I see pictures, flickering like some kind of strobe light
but it's more than that. I don't see the names, you know, the
addresses, the information. I just know, like it all tumbled
into my head like candy into an empty piñata. I hate it, it just
hurts so much but sometimes, for just a second it's like--like
touching something perfect." His voice shook and Doyle raised a
trembling hand to his head. "But it hurts, it...hurts...hurts!"
His eyes widened, glazed over as they looked at something Angel
could never see. Every time he saw this, he could only watch
uselessly and hold Doyle, careful to keep him from hurting himself,
and he hated it, that as much as he tried to help he was partly
responsible for causing this very pain.
"Some kind of demon," Doyle gasped, "I couldn't see much about 'em,
just robes and this wicked sharp knife. They're making a sacrifice
for something and they have a little gal and her mom all ready for
the first cut."
"Did you see where?" Angel asked urgently.
"Yeah, I got the crossroads but we got more problems than that.
Angel, this ritual is on the roof of some building."
"The roof?"
"In the day." That would hinder things a little, unless he didn't
mind fighting and bursting into flames at the same time. Doyle gave
him a weak smile and slapped him on the back. "Don't worry, we'll
think of something."
He snatched his jacket off the chair and followed Angel out into the
main office, muttering under his breath. "Never thought I'd be happy
to have just a plain vision."
Chapter Five
"Don't know why you're complaining. It worked, didn't it."
Angel didn't answer him as he stepped carefully out of the lift. He
opened the refrigerator and chose one plastic-cased packet of blood
at random, holding it with clumsy, numb fingers. They could barely
grasp it and he finally had to use both hands to set it on the
counter.
"Yeah, there were a few problems here and there," Doyle went on.
Angel could hear him rummaging for the first aid kit, useless
bandages that he would accept in silence. He would heal with or
without sterile bits of cotton to hold him together. Mostly they
were to spare his clothing and furniture from any more bloodstains
than they already had. There was the sound of plastic being stripped
away, waxed strips of paper peeled from sticky tape as Doyle bound
up his own wounds. "But we did save the ladies."
Again, both hands to get a mug from the cupboard, holding it between
his wrists, his outstretched fingers curved out of the way. Vampires
couldn't blister or peel but they made up for it with skin that
charred as easily as rice paper set aflame. He'd felt that before,
once, caught out in the daylight for far too long and the ruined
skin had peeled away in grotesque sheets, leaving pink and shiny
flesh beneath it that was too sensitive for even a touch. This was
nothing so bad as that, only the lightest of burns but his hands
were still clumsy and dumb, his fingers stiffened with new skin.
Doyle's burns were worse and his skin did blister into little puffed
beads on his hands.
He'd seen it in the stairwell off the roof, just out of the sunlight
after Doyle had tried stupidly to beat out the flames with his own
bare hands. The woman he'd saved stumbled away down the stairs,
clutching her child to her chest, too panicked to care much about
her blazing rescuer. It was Doyle's coat that had finally saved them
both, some bit of self-preservation that made him think to whip it
off and smother the fire. His own coat was a complete loss and
they'd left it in the stairwell. The rest of his clothes had fared
somewhat better and his hands, bare and unprotected, had taken the
worst of the damage. Next time he'd remember gloves. He wondered if
there was burn ointment in the kit and made a mental note to check
in case Doyle needed it.
God, he was tired.
The ceramic cup between his wrists was slick in his awkward grasp
and it was with nothing more than weary expectation that he felt it
slip and tumble to the floor.
Doyle caught it easily, half-kneeling in an oddly graceful little
movement as he came in from behind him. He set it absently on the
counter before taking away the blood packet and slitting it open
with the kitchen shears. His fingers were circled with band-aids,
the false flesh tone of them garish against his paler skin. "I was
right fond of this shirt though," he said, and looked mournfully at
the scorched front. At that point it was only being held together by
the buttons. The demise of his shirt was probably the only good
thing that had happened today.
"I was pretty fond of my coat, too," Angel murmured. He watched as
Doyle expertly tipped the blood into the mug and set it in the
microwave. He leaned against the counter, folded his arms awkwardly
so his hands rested lightly on top, and they both watched it circle
slowly as it heated.
"Let's say we do a little practice with the beach umbrella," Doyle
was saying, "before we try that again, yeah?"
"Yeah," Angel said vaguely. He barely heard him. The warm
blood-smell was starting to rise in the air and even though it was
animal blood, his mouth watered for the taste of it. That first
burst of flavor across his tongue, fouled as it was with the taint
of the beast but unbearably tempting, his drug though not one of his
choice. He started to reach for the microwave door as it beeped but
Doyle beat him to it, hissed softly at the heat as he picked up the
mug and then held it out to Angel. He reached for it automatically
and frowned as Doyle held it away.
"You'd just drop it anyway," he pointed out reasonably, and he held
it out again, tipping it enough that the dark fluid thinned against
the side, showing a hint of its true crimson tone.
It wasn't shame that filled him as he leaned in and let Doyle tip
the blood into his mouth. Nothing like shame, more like desperation,
the viscous flow over his tongue dimming even that as he drank,
trying not to reach up and grab Doyle's wrist to keep him there.
Humiliation came later, licking blood from his lips and knowing he
was hunching in to reach the cup that Doyle still held, his eyes
yellowed and his demon revealed.
Doyle didn't flinch from him, not physically, but he was looking
away, eyes on the counter while Angel fed, quickly. The blood would
thicken as it cooled, like sludge against his tongue and he hated
that more than anything. It made it too easy to remember that it
never happened when you took it from the source.
His concentrated disinterest was less than a relief but better than
the alternative. Some people found vampires fascinating, watched
eagerly as they sipped their life from the lives of others. The
heady danger of it, the possibility of death that they never truly
believed would be theirs. It tiresome cliché that most vampires
bored with quickly, preferring the final climax of death rather than
toying with it to entertain a human who was nothing more than food.
But Doyle wasn't human and didn't seem interested in feeding habits
of vampires, or any demon that wasn't trying to kill them for that
matter. Even through it all, he was still so insistently human, if
only to himself and Cordelia because nothing about him would ever
let Angel forget the truth.
Did he still see his demon self as an outsider, more of a dual
personality than one true creature? A parasite of sorts that had
stolen his life away from him and left him with the dregs. If so,
Angel could sympathize.
Even humiliation didn't keep him from licking the rim of the cup,
catching the last clinging stain of blood while Doyle wasn't
watching him. He stepped back to signal he was done and Doyle rinsed
the cup and set it in the sink before he started unbuttoning his
shirt.
The bloodhigh was still singing to him, a technicolor glory that was
pushed along by whatever mystical means kept a dead body moving and
speaking, and it was only that, he told himself, that made his cock
stiffen so quickly as he watched Doyle strip off in the pallid
light.
"Mind if I take the first shower?"
"Um?" It didn't even register until Doyle breezed past him, still in
his trousers, and into the bathroom. The first juddery spurt of
water as he turned it on, dimmed as Doyle stepped in and there was
the snap of the shower curtain as he closed it.
Angel heard it all, still standing in the kitchen. For a moment he'd
actually thought--it didn't matter what he'd thought, only that it
hadn't been true. He took a shaky, useless breath and scrubbed a
hand over his face roughly. It was the blood, had to be. He could
still taste it on the back of his tongue, the tingle that signaled
his hands were healing faster now and he could flex his fingers and
did, tried not to think of what he'd almost did with them before
Doyle had walked away.
They called it food because what other word was there for it, but it
wasn't, vampires didn't eat food because they weren't alive. It
could talk like a man and walk like one, but it didn't breathe like
one or shit like one, didn't even bleed like one. Just paler, used
liquid that passed for blood, after the demon had dredged whatever
it was that it needed from it. Until then, it surged in him like
opium and pulled that demon closer to the surface because while he
was the one who drank the blood it was the demon who feasted.
But not all demons were evil, not even most, and he wondered
sometimes how a half-demon had a soul or something that passed for
one. Or maybe he should wonder how a half-human kept his soul. He
took a reluctant step closer to the bathroom where the door was
mostly open. Through the rising steam and the clear shower curtain
he could see Doyle, his face raised into the hot water and his hands
well away from it, pressed against the tiles.
Perfect, just like that, and Angel could slip in behind him so
easily, hold him perfectly still, the water pouring down on them
molten hot and the first push inside like a memory of Hell.
He reeled the thought in so hard he actually stumbled backward and
bumped hard into the arm of the chair behind him, fumbling it around
until he could sit.
"Christ," he muttered aloud, and his guts felt like wet leaves. This
was not helping things.
He never called it Angelus, not in his own mind. It was always the
demon; the darker half of himself that he had to admit was his own
if he ever wanted to be absolved of its sins. It was not cognized,
not verbally, but it could feel and what it felt was desire, bitter
and hot, boiling out and over into Angel. Desire for Doyle who was
so utterly available to him, if he only asked, if he didn't know how
much Doyle would hate him for it, how much he'd hate himself for
taking more than was absolutely necessary.
"How is this helping me stay focused?" he demanded to no one at all,
not feeling half as foolish about it as he expected. He'd been
better off with no sex at all and the risk of possibly being
distracted than he was like this, waiting for the moment he lost
control and just pushed Doyle over his desk in the office. Probably
with Cordelia in the corner complaining that they were going to
scare away the clients.
He had it under control when Doyle came out of the bathroom in just
a towel, didn't even blink and if he got hard looking at the damp,
exposed skin then it was all right. So long as he stayed in his
chair and did not move.
"I forgot, I don't have anything else to wear." Doyle ran a sheepish
hand through his dripping hair and grinned.
Angel gestured vaguely towards his bedroom and did not get up. "Help
yourself." He rethought it as Doyle walked into the bedroom and he
heard the closet door slide open. "Nothing leather!"
A soft laugh was his only reply.
There was a framed sketch on the wall opposite to him, one he had
done himself, a still life of a young woman that he'd cribbed from
another artist. She reminded him vaguely of his sister, whose face
he could not remember at all and she was too long dead for more than
a stirring of guilt.
Something else then, maybe dinner if his hands were up to cooking or
take-out if they weren't. He could drive over to the little Chinese
place that Doyle liked so much and leave the top down to let the
cool air run its fingers through his hair and when he got back it
would be better, he would be better, calmer, and it would be all
right.
The slap of something against his chest startled him from his
thoughts and he reached for it automatically, a slick plastic tube
and it was followed by something else entirely. Doyle sliding into
his lap, skin still damp and he smelled fresh and steamy from the
shower.
"You could've said something before I took a shower," Doyle
complained softly into his ear and, God, he was here, right here in
Angel's lap and naked, and he knew--
He wrapped his arms around Doyle and pulled him in tightly, licked
that soft pulse-point at the base of his throat to feel him shiver.
His own clothes were faintly charred and ruined, burned from his own
skin touched by sunlight and he fumbled them open to get where he
really wanted to be, pressed against bare skin.
Doyle gasped and shook, his face hidden against Angel's shoulder,
maybe to hide his reluctance but part of him was as eager for this
as Angel was, hot and hard in Angel's palm and Doyle was all
sweet-smelling hair and pale skin. No taste of salt to him as Angel
licked his way up the line of his throat, nothing so pallid as human
and between them, they managed to fumble the tube open, bandaged
fingers against colder, healing ones.
Stroked Doyle open with slick fingers and it hurt, the
clenching heat of his body against still-tender skin and Angel
didn't care, nor about how awkward it was in this chair that wasn't
made for two, not even with one sitting on the other. He gathered
Doyle into his arms, positioned him and just pushed.
"Ah, God," he moaned, helplessly, but God didn't reply, only left
them alone in that rough chair while Angel muttered blasphemies
about His only son. It would have been impossible for a human,
nearly so for a vampire but he could move just enough, grinding his
hips up as Doyle sobbed out a breath. Still so unbelievably tight,
and he wondered how many times he could fuck Doyle before he finally
loosened, that first almost-painful tightness ebbing away into
something easier to slide into. Wondered if he'd get a chance to
find out and hated that he'd even thought of it.
There were already bluish bruises on Doyle's hips from before,
probably still there from the first time and fresh red marks were
already appearing from Angel's grip, tightening and loosening
infinitesimally as he rocked Doyle in his lap and listened to the
soft sounds he made, harsh and rhythmic and they made his cock
harden like stone.
Why are you doing this to us, he wanted to cry, but all he could do
was moan as he pulled Doyle down hard and made him cry out, the rush
of scalding heat against his belly and the sudden, hard kiss of
penetration as slick muscle went tight around him. The light
behind his eyes tasted like electricity and orgasm left him drained
and cold, the last warmth from the blood finally seeping away.
Barely time for Doyle to catch his breath when he stiffened
suddenly, nails digging into Angel's shoulders as his eyes went
wide, lost to whatever images were fluttering through his head. This
was worse than a betrayal, this was an invasion and at that
moment, he hated the Powers, whoever or whatever they were. He
wanted to scream like a spoiled child at them for stealing Doyle
away while he was still pulsing with their sex and going soft inside
him.
But perhaps that was the point. A reminder that Doyle wasn't really
his, after all.
It lasted not even a minute, Doyle's eyelids fluttering as he shook
with it, collapsing finally into Angel's arms. He pulled away with
startling quickness, snatching the towel from the floor and hiding
what little he could of his body behind it before he sank down on
the sofa and buried his face in his hands.
"What did you see?" Angel asked softly.
His voice was muffled by his hands. Between the shower and the sex,
the band-aids ringing his fingers were already ruined, one torn
almost completely off and hanging limply from one tab. But they
didn't disguise the one word he said, barely loud enough to be heard
and yet it echoed through Angel like a knife wound.
"Buffy."
Chapter Six
Doyle had refused to go home.
Angel's argument that he didn't need to come to Sunnydale had been
very persistent and well thought out, covering all the major points
with a flat, "You're not coming."
Unfortunately, Doyle's argument had been better. "Oh, right, and
when they," he jerked a thumb upward, "Decide we haven't been
tangoing enough, I'm the one they zap. Forget it."
It was the first time Angel had been argued down by another man
wearing his clothes. They stopped at Doyle's apartment first because
if his normal wardrobe was a little unusual, Angel's baggy sweats
and a t-shirt were not an improvement. He'd insisted that Angel go
up to the apartment with him, even into the bedroom while he quickly
changed and threw a spare set of clothes into a bag, watching him
suspiciously the entire time like he was afraid Angel would make a
break for the door and leave him there.
Not that the idea didn't have some appeal but since Doyle knew how
to drive, it was a moot point.
The ride had been in silence with Doyle curled in his seat, napping,
and Angel listening to the Wednesday 80's flashback on KCAL. They
pulled into a small, garishly neon motel outside of the city limits
just after three and he left Doyle in the car while he paid for the
room, keeping half an eye on his sleeping form through a large,
dirty glass window. They weren't quite in Sunnydale but that didn't
make it any safer to roam the streets at night.
He took the keycard from a bored-looking teenager with a rash of
acne, whose eyes barely left the small TV screen on the back of the
counter long enough to ring him up. Doyle hadn't so much as moved
when he returned and there was a growing patch of dampness on his
left shoulder where he was drooling in his sleep. Angel nudged the
dry side gently, trying not to startle him. It had no effect and he
tried it again, harder, to no avail. How was this man still alive?
He could sleep through his own murder.
"Doyle," he whispered, then louder, "Doyle!"
"Hmmzat?" Came a drowsy murmur. "Ang'?"
Sleepy green eyes peered up at him, blinking rapidly. There was a
wet trail on his cheek that Doyle rubbed at clumsily with the back
of his hand and the sight of him, rumpled and sleepy, made Angel
smile. The poor guy actually looked cute.
"Hey, we're here and you're not spending the night in the car
because I'd like you to be alive in the morning, so you can either
get out or I can carry you to the room. Your call."
Doyle was out of the car with almost vampiric speed and he glared at
Angel, who wasn't bothering to hide a smirk. "I can walk, thanks,"
he said with icy dignity, and proceeded to do so for about ten feet,
until he stopped and walked back. "Mind telling me the room number?"
Silently, Angel handed him the key card and retrieved their luggage
before following him up to the second floor mezzanine. It took Doyle
two tries to open the door, muttering under his breath the entire
time and when he finally got it open, he stopped just inside the
door so abruptly that Angel walked right into him, nearly sending
them both to the floor.
"What?" he frowned, pushing Doyle behind him automatically as he
peered into the dark room. Just what they needed, this place was
probably a distant cousin to the Bates motel. Inside it looked
worse, neon giving way to avocado carpeting and lamps with velvety
yellow shades stationed on either side of the bed. He wouldn't be
surprised to find a painting of Elvis's last supper in the bathroom.
Ugly, yes, but he didn't see anything amiss. "What's wrong?"
He heard Doyle swallow hard, "Well, it's just got the one, you
know?"
One wha-one king-sized bed. He hadn't even thought about it when he
paid for the room, "I'm sorry, I'll go back and--" Doyle waved him
off.
"Nah, s'all right. I'm too damned tired to worry about it." True to
his word, he shuffled in and sprawled out on the bed fully clothed.
After a moment, one eye opened and looked at Angel, who was still
standing by the open door. "You coming?"
Angel bit his tongue on what he nearly said. He really was tired if
he was about to make dirty jokes, but they had been hijacked off
here for a reason. Until he figured out what was going on, sleeping
wouldn't be an option. "Look, why don't you just stay here?
Sunnydale is a late night town and I should--"
"No, no, no, you don't!" Doyle sat up and looked at him with alarm.
"You're not leaving me here while you go traipsing around town."
"We already took care of things tonight, you should be fine," Angel
said sharply. He was not staying here when Buffy could be in danger.
Anxiety was dancing a tango on his nerves and all he wanted to do
was find out if she was all right. A vision about her in some kind
of danger and he'd had to resist the urge to shake details from his
unforthcoming seer. Cryptic visions from indifferent Powers; at
least they'd been kind enough to send him a warning.
"You really think I only came because of the visions?" Doyle's quiet
voice gave him pause, settled the itch to simply run to her. He was
sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Angel with soft eyes that
could see clearly through the darkness.
Didn't you, but that wasn't fair and Angel was relieved he
realized it before he said it and made true hurt shine in those
eyes. It made him remember that Doyle had been his friend first,
before all the strangeness and false desire, before he'd ever
learned the taste of his skin. Angel bit the inside of his cheek to
forestall that thought before it coiled off in the wrong direction.
Suddenly it was a comfort that Doyle was here with him. He didn't
have to do this alone.
"I