Strawberry Fields -- Angel -- by Keelywolfe

Strawberry Fields

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