Matched Pair, a Doyle story in the Angel universe by Glacis. Rated NC17
for adult themes. No copyright infringement intended. Alternate
universe; severe manipulation of canon. I like Doyle. This is my fix.
He'd gone to Sunnydale. Followed the vision. Protected his love.
Who'd then followed him home, fought with him, loved him, shared
humanity and mint chocolate chip ice cream with him, then forgotten it all in
the need to continue the good fight.
Sometimes, life sucked.
Angel crouched low, came in high first with a roundhouse kick then a
sharp left-right-left combination of punches and jabs. Two of the five demons
in the pack were down now, the other three circling. Growling, he went down
under their combined weight.
It wasn't that he wanted to be some sort of super hero. The whole
thought of tights just made him wince. But somebody had to do it. He was the
most qualified somebody on the block.
And maybe, just maybe, if he did it long enough, some of the guilt would
dissipate.
He wasn't able to shift the demons clawing at him, and he felt his skin
tear. The sharp pain of pointed teeth sinking into flesh and muscle triggered a
defensive response, and he vamped out. Demons flew in all directions, one still
doggedly hanging on with clenched jaw to his side. He chopped down and felt the
lower jaw disconnect, in pieces, from the upper. That finally eased the bite.
Killed the demon, too. Ignoring the blood dripping down his side, eyes gleaming yellow and
fangs flashing, he swept down on the final two demons. A clenched hand ripped
the spine out of the back of one's neck and the other punched in and through
the second's gut. Dropping the first and shaking the second one off his arm
with a slight sucking sound, he sighed.
It seemed his work was never done.
Angel made it back to the tunnels as first light was breaking over the
horizon. As usual, it was going to be a beautiful day in
He would sleep through it.
Same shit, different night.
"D'you reckon we
should wake him up? He doesn't look too good."
"He's sweating. Ick. I didn't know vampires sweat."
"I think ... He's got a fever, Cordelia."
A hand, light, gentle, cool on his forehead. Cool? How could it be cool?
It was Doyle. Angel recognized his scent, not to mention the brogue that was
thick enough to cut with a knife. But Doyle was human, or at least half human,
and his core body temperature was a solid thirty degrees higher than Angel's.
How on earth could his hand feel cool?
"I didn't know vampires got sick."
"This one is." The hand disappeared, and Angel whimpered.
Bring it back! he thought wistfully. Felt good. Want
to feel good.
Don't feel so good.
He didn't realize he's said it aloud until Doyle answered him. "You
don't look so great either, man. What happened?"
The covers were pulled down, as gently as the hand had touched him
earlier, and he groaned as icy air touched his chest. The fire was all through
him, but seemed most intense along the bottom of his rib cage. A tentative
finger touched him there, and he cried out in agony.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God," Doyle cursed. From a distance,
Angel could hear Cordy gulping. Several
times.
"That is so gross," she whined, a hint of horror and a
whole lot of revulsion in her tone.
"What happened, Angel?" Doyle was very close to him. Angel
could feel Doyle's breath on his cheek. It felt good. But he was asking
something. Had to be important, he could hear what sounded like fear in Doyle's
voice. Angel didn't like that sound in that voice.
"Grottiche," he managed to croak out.
"Bit me."
Fingertips touched his side again, pressing slightly, and agony lanced
through him again. With a strangled moan, he gave up the fight and allowed
himself to pass out.
"It's grotty, alright!" Cordelia pronounced. "Yuck! It's
oozing yellow and green and --"
"I noticed, Cordelia," Doyle snapped. The
smell was awful, and from the looks of Angel, the feel had to be even worse.
"And it wasn't grotty, it was Grottiche. Kind of demon. Nasty, feral little bastards, the lot of them." He gave
Cordy an apologetic look for the obscenity, but she
was oblivious as usual. He shrugged. "Doesn't look like
we've got a lot of time. We have to find out how to counteract this
little poison trick and we've got to do it fast. You hit the books, I'll take
the computer."
"I can do computer!" she started to protest. He didn't take
the time to argue, just brushed past her and sat down at the keyboard. She
grumbled, but did as he'd asked.
It didn't take long to find the requisite chapter and verse. Cordy let out a "yes!" and bounced up beside him.
"Got it!"
Doyle was leaning over to read what she found when they heard Angel's
voice, weak but determined, calling from the bedroom. Doyle found himself
trailing after her as she trotted into the room, perched on the side of the
bed, and began to read, running her finger along the line as she said the
words. Angel looked worse, with dark circles under his eyes, which were bright
and glazed with the fever.
"Says here that the bite of a grotty
demon-"
"Grottiche," both men chorused. She
shrugged and kept reading.
"- brings 'fire to the blood and brain until the essence is
consumed' -- does that mean what I think it means?"
"Means he's going to die if we don't do something,
and do it soon. Does it say anything about a cure?" Doyle
walked to the edge of the bed, looking over her shoulder, concentrating on the
words so he wouldn't have to see how near to gone Angel already looked. It
disturbed him on levels he hadn't thought of in years, and couldn't see Angel
ever welcoming. There were limits to what friends would do for one another, and
generous as Angel was, Doyle couldn't see a buddy fuck, or even a pity fuck, in
the foreseeable future.
"Well, that doesn't make any sense," Cordelia
muttered.
"Try us," Angel whispered. "Might."
Doyle's eyes were drawn to Angel's face despite his intentions. It was
incandescent even burning with fever.
"It says that the cure is to drink from a brackish demon. I thought
brackish water made you sick?"
Doyle froze. His eyes met Angel's, who was staring back at him. Cordelia continued to natter on
for a few moments before Doyle could unlock his tongue and interrupt her.
"S'okay, Cordelia,
I can come up with that." She looked askance at him, and he gave her his
very best reassuring smile. She didn't appear reassured, so he dropped it and
gave her a sincere look. She looked a few degrees closer to convinced.
"I happen to know someone who can come up with, er,
just the brackish stuff that'll do the trick. Leave it to me. But perhaps it'd
be better if you went home now. I can take care of it from here."
She looked like she wanted to argue, but Angel laid a hand against hers,
along the edge of the book. "It's okay, Cordy. I know this friend of Doyle's. He can help. Go
home."
Cordelia stared at him for
a long moment. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," Angel answered simply. The effort to fight the pain was
obvious in both his expression and his voice. "Thank you."
"But the sooner done, soonest mended, so on your way now and I'll
get on with it." Doyle didn't want to sound like he was pushing her out,
but he also preferred she not find out she was sharing company with a
half-Human, half-Brakken demon. The Irish was hard
enough for her to cope with. He'd a feeling the blue-green spikes and red eyes
would be impossible.
"Shouldn't someone stay with Angel?"
As if in response to her question, Angel abruptly vamped out. He lunged
at Cordelia, and she backed up with a shriek, the
book falling forgotten to the floor. Doyle flung himself at Angel and muscled him back onto the bed, fever weakness the only thing
that allowed him to hold the delirious vampire in place.
"Go now, Cordelia!" Doyle barked at
her. She gave him a frightened look and scampered for the door. Not a moment
too soon. He stunned Angel with a short right cross, long enough to allow Doyle
to leave him unattended and go over to turn the deadbolt. He really didn't want
any witnesses to this.
Behind him, he heard rustling as Angel gathered himself
for another attack. Concentrating, he shifted form, turning and meeting the
vampire's rush in the middle of the floor. Calling himself seven kinds of a
fool, trying hard not to think of the insanity in those yellow eyes, he
stretched his neck to the side, caught Angel against him, and guided Angel's
fangs to his carotid artery.
The first tearing bite hurt like the very devil. The spikes standing out
from his face were no impediment -- they were softer than they looked, giving
easily to pressure. Angel nuzzled into him, growling breathily as he bit. Doyle
cursed fluently under his breath, doing his best to recall every Gaelic curse
his mother had ever used on the worst days in an effort to distract himself
from the pain.
To his utter amazement, Angel recoiled after the initial bite. He was
doubled over, retching although nothing was coming up, and spitting over and
over again. There was dark red blood on his lips, but apparently it tasted
terrible, because he wasn't having any of it. Doyle stared at him. Well, this
was a turn-up for the books. Not only was he going to have to let Angel suck
his blood, he was going to have to convince him to do it.
He felt like he was seducing a prostitute. It was just ... bizarre.
But it was necessary. Grabbing Angel by the waist, he hauled the larger
body over to the bed and slung him down on it, efficiently if not gently.
"I know I'm not quite the vampire equivalent of a five course meal,"
he panted, slinging himself atop Angel and splaying over his supine body like a
starfish. "But you've got one chance, man, and that's by taking a taste of
me. So you're going to do it, if I have to take a straw and stick it in me own
neck."
With that, he grabbed the back of Angel's head and stuffed the
protesting vampire's face into the side of his neck. By now the fever had
gotten a strong enough hold on Angel that he was too weak to fight Doyle off at
all.
He still wouldn't drink.
Doyle was getting light-headed himself from the loss of blood from the
opened artery, and desperation made him snarl. "Goddamnit,
man, help yourself! I'm a bloody buffet, literally
now, and you're a damned starving man! DRINK!" He
scooped up a palmful of blood from his collarbone and
thrust the wet hand at Angel's mouth, fingers probing past the fangs to paint
the tongue.
It worked.
Angel's tongue curled around Doyle's fingers, licking hesitantly at
first, then more firmly. The demon blood must have started to work immediately,
because Doyle saw a hint of sanity return to the blazing yellow eyes at the
same time that the fanged mouth rounded about his fingers, sucking them clean.
Even with the pain and the blood loss, it was the most erotic thing
Doyle had ever felt in his life.
The arousal must have shown somewhere, if not in his scent or his blood,
then certainly in the erection that was digging into Angel's belly. Angel
responded to that instinctively, too, following as Doyle withdrew his fingers,
licking at Doyle's chin, then his throat where blood had splashed across his
skin. He licked further down, along the hollow of his collarbone then up to the
savaged vein. Doyle couldn't help but moan. The pain was sparkling across his
nerve endings, and it felt uncannily like the most intense pleasure he'd ever
known.
He held on to that thought as the suction continued, strengthened, and
he could feel the lassitude of death along his arms and legs, creeping up his
body. The last thought he had, right after he decided that if one of them had
to live it was better it be the warrior than the messenger, was that it was a
hell of a good way to go. Then vertigo spun his mind into oblivion.
Angel came fully back to himself with a thud.
He was on his bed, with Doyle spread over his lap, head thrown back in abandon.
Doyle's shirt was open, his face and body firmly in demon territory, and Angel
was nuzzling against his torn neck. There was no blood left anywhere on his
soft green skin, because Angel had licked up every drop of it.
Every last drop.
"No!" Angel moaned, low and deep in his throat. This wasn't
supposed to happen. For one thing, vampires didn't drink demon blood because it
made them sick. And it tasted terrible. For another thing, this was Doyle,
his friend, one of the very few friends he had, and Angel couldn't believe he'd
killed him.
Although he certainly had drunk demon blood,
and far from tasting terrible, after the first flash of nausea, it was actually
very sweet. Sweeter, even, than human blood, even the most
sweet human blood, Slayer blood. But that didn't alter the fact that
this was Doyle draped across his lap. Doyle, in full demon
form, dark lashes laying against deep greenish blue skin, Brakken
spines drooping sadly against his face.
With no pulse in his throat.
Angel shuddered, drawing Doyle up to him in a fierce hug, and burying
his face in Doyle's chest. Waiting for the body to turn to
dust. That's what dead demons did, when they died. Turned
to ash.
He waited.
Doyle lay there.
After several minutes of nothing happening, Angel reared up and stared
down at Doyle, still wrapped in his arms, still draped over his lap. Still in one piece.
Very much in one piece.
Angel unwrapped one arm from around Doyle's
body and ran his hand over the previously-gnawed side of Doyle's neck. The skin
was smooth, unblemished, unbroken. Greenish blue, but that was normal in this
phase of being. As his palm lingered over the cool skin, he felt it pulse under
his hand.
He jumped.
Not much, just enough to lose hold of Doyle. Angel stared hard at the
demon lying limply across him, and after several long seconds he saw it again. A single pulse. Much too slow to be a
normal human heartbeat. Gently lifting Doyle from his lap and laying him
on the bedding, Angel heaved himself shakily from the
bed and across the room. Picking up the discarded demonology book, he rifled
through the pages until he got to the index. Running his finger down the page,
he located the entry for Brakken demons and flipped
through until he found it.
Very slow metabolism. They could drink for hours without showing the
effects. So, that's where Doyle got it. It wasn't only the Irish half.
Angel slowly walked back to the bed and sat down on the edge of it.
Timing them over the next minute, he counted pulses. Six.
Approximately one heartbeat every ten seconds. Right on the money for a perfectly healthy Brakken
demon.
So. Looked like
somehow Doyle had survived being
Seven hours later he was still waiting, Doyle was still exhibiting the
form of his Brakken half, and day was breaking. The
pulses were still just as strong, just as steady, and just as slow. Angel
hadn't been able to find anything anywhere on what effect being drained had on Brakken demons. He also hadn't been able to find any clues
whatsoever about half-demon reactions. Doyle appeared to be in the Brakken equivalent of hibernation. And Cordelia
was due in just a few hours.
Putting the book back on the shelf, Angel did some quick planning. He
knew that Doyle didn't want Cordy to find out that he
was half-demon. So he'd just have to make sure she didn't.
He'd hide Doyle.
Until Doyle woke up, shook away the spikes, and came back to himself. At which point Angel was going to take him to the
nearest pub and toast him with the finest malt money could buy.
"Angel! You're alive!" Cordy's smile
lit up her face. "Relatively, anyway," she qualified the joyous
statement. She patted his arm. He nodded at her, giving her his usual look of
somewhat amused befuddlement. "So Doyle's friend came
through." Angel nodded. "Where is he?" At Angel's
questioning look, she clarified, "Doyle, I mean. Where'd he go?"
"Ah," Angel began, thinking furiously. "Some people came.
Asking for him. He's ... away."
She gave him a look that she clearly thought meant he couldn't fool her.
She knew Doyle was hiding from some mob guy's enforcer thugs. Which, of course, meant that he'd fooled her completely. He
hid a smile.
Not long after, several auditions just happened to find their way onto Cordelia's social calendar, and Angel sighed with relief
when she disappeared. Making his way back into the bedroom, he sat on the side
of the bed and studied Doyle. No change. Still spiky. Still greenish-blue. Angel leaned forward and lifted one
eyelid with his thumb. Yes. Eyes were still red.
Taking his hand away, he watched the lid settle down, and found himself distracted by the length and thickness of the lashes
now resting against the spiny cheek. The previous night was becoming clearer in
his memory the more rested he became, and his body was reacting to Doyle's in a
distinctly unusual way.
Or perhaps arousal around Doyle wasn't as unusual as Angel wished it
would be. Doyle had an odd effect on him. Angel didn't trust people. He trusted
Doyle. He didn't touch, or be touched, easily. Yet he had his hands on Doyle
all the time. He felt protective in a general way of all humanity, because
humans were vulnerable, in much the way he would have felt protective of any
harmless group of animals who were preyed upon by stronger, vicious predators.
Like himself.
Doyle, on the other hand, roused specifically protective instincts. When
hired demons went after Doyle, Angel had actively sought to stop them, even
when Doyle himself hadn't asked for or welcomed his help. Every time Doyle had
a vision, Angel ached for him, found himself holding Doyle up, doing anything
he could to ease Doyle through the pain.
Then, the previous night, when Doyle had offered up everything he had to
save Angel's life, Angel had reacted very much as he had when Buffy had done
the same thing. The thought shook him to his core.
Was he in love with Doyle?
Before he could even fully articulate the question, the answer echoed in his
mind. No. He had only one true love. That was Buffy. Only in her arms could he
ever achieve perfect happiness.
But he did love Doyle. And on a partnership level, on a friendship
level, on a trusted companion level ... given half a chance he'd fuck him
through the floor and enjoy every minute of it. Without once
risking his soul.
Of course, as soon as he tried, Doyle would stake him. So it was a moot
point.
Giving up on pointless mental ramblings, he settled back against the
pillows, picked up a book, and ignored it for the rest of the day as he lay
there and watched Doyle's throat, counting heartbeats.
The last time he'd felt this horrible, he'd spent the previous evening
calling young Oz BamBam. Reciting bad poetry and
slaughtering fine literature. Doyle rolled over, further than he remembered
being able to in his single bed, and buried his face in the pillow.
It caught on the case.
Now, that was not the usual. Blinking painfully into the soft
cotton, Doyle experimentally, and very slowly, brushed his cheek against the
pillow.
It caught again.
Wondering just what the bleedin' hell he'd
drunk the night before to leave him weak as a kitten, with a head the size of a
county, and spiked out in full demon face, he concentrated as best he could on
changing his demeanor back to his normal pale skinned dark haired blue eyed
self.
It didn't work.
Positive now that he'd gone to a pub, disgraced himself,
accidentally outed himself and now stood no chance
whatsoever with Cordelia -- ignoring the fact that he
never had and clinging pathetically to his dreams -- Doyle let out a wail that
would have made a banshee proud.
Unfortunately, all it did was make his head hurt. More.
A secondary and unexpected side effect of his wail was the appearance of
Angel. Not just at his side, but in bed with him. For a crazy second, Doyle
wondered just how far out of that closet he'd roared, when memory hit
with all the grace and subtlety of a rock slide.
"Ouch," he managed to whimper. Angel patted him on the
shoulder. Even that hurt. Doyle ignored him for a second, not quite sure what
to say, and did his own little bodily inventory. Head.
Present, though at the moment he wished not. Neck.
Check. In one piece, even. Arms, legs, torso, all attached as they should be. Erection. Digging a furrow in the mattress an iron plowshare
would be proud to own.
Oh, no.
"Wha' happened?" he faked. Angel
bought it. Thank God.
"You saved my life." That hand was back, patting him along the
shoulder, lingering here and there to give a little squeeze. Doyle's erection
throbbed in sympathy. Doyle growled. The hand patted. "Thanks," Angel
said very softly.
"Any day, man," Doyle managed to croak. "Now how come my
face has frozen like this?"
Thank the good Lord almighty that hand finally withdrew. Doyle could
take a breath. Of a sort. A constricted, painfully
aroused sort, but it was better than nothing.
"I'm not sure," Angel eventually answered. "You should be
dead."
At that, Doyle rolled over, carefully shielding his too-slowly fading
erection from too-sharp eyes. "And why is that? I feel fine for a dead
man."
"I drained you."
Doyle gulped. There were so many possible connotations to that phrase.
He pushed the more delightful ones deeper into the back of his brain and
concentrated on the one that would have the most immediate meaning to a
vampire. "So if I've no blood left, what's coursing through my veins,
then?"
"Blood," answered Angel immediately. "Very
slowly. Not as slowly as yesterday. It's sped up." Doyle looked
blankly at him and Angel explained a little further. "After I fed, you had
no pulse, then it started at six beats per
minute."
"Yipes," Doyle managed. He'd really been
dead?
"
Doyle thought, again, Really? then wondered if it was time he revisited the few books he'd
seen that had information on his demon half. If he really was stuck like this ...
"Then today it's up to thirty two beats per minute."
He's counting? Doyle couldn't seem to get on track, and couldn't seem to say
anything, either, so he stayed where he was and watched Angel's mouth move.
"Well, thirty four two minutes ago, then back to thirty. I'm
estimating the thirty two."
Doyle closed his eyes and swallowed. "So, if I'm dead, how come I'm
breathing? And my heart's beating, albeit slowly?"
"I have no idea," Angel admitted. Doyle wasn't reassured.
"But as long as you are, I'm not complaining."
"Me, neither!" Doyle blurted. "Now, how do we go about getting myself
back to my normal face and out of the gay apparel of the Brakken
type?"
Angel looked at him blankly. Doyle blinked. Okay, so seasonal humor
didn't work after the second century, or so it would appear. He sighed.
"Smooth skin? No spikes?"
"Noxzema?" Angel asked, straight-faced.
Doyle rolled back over and buried his face in the pillow.
His spikes caught.
That set the tone for the next week. Cordelia
came back after a long weekend and made two specific queries after Doyle. It
lifted his spirits, eavesdropping in the next room. The fact that she stopped
asking after the first day dropped them like a stone.
Angel was around often. He tended not to say much, and spent most of his
time staring at Doyle's neck. If he hadn't known better, he'd've
sworn Angel was hungry. But anytime he asked, Angel was immediately able to
tell him the current pulse count. It was a bit unnerving.
Especially since it made him hungry. Not for blood, of course.
For Angel.
He'd tried going out and about a few times, but in his current form he
couldn't leave the flat, and the few times he'd ventured past the bedroom door
he'd nearly gotten caught by Cordelia. So he'd taken
to spending most of his time out on patrol with Angel at night and sleeping
away the daytime.
It didn't help any that Angel continued to sleep with him. Well, share
the bed, anyway. The first time he'd come in to take his daily nap, Doyle
hadn't known he was there until he'd rolled into Angel's chest. It was a nice
chest. Strong. Broad. Firm,
soft skinned, heavily muscled.
Doyle was rubbing his spikes against it like a cat grooming its whiskers
before he could stop himself.
"Itch?" Angel asked quietly, with a touch of laughter just under his voice.
He froze mid-strop. "Uhm,
hello?" It wasn't the most intelligent thing he'd ever said, but it
was the only thing he could think to say. It wasn't easy to find
conversational gambits when all the blood he had left in his body was currently
heading south at the speed of light.
"Hi," Angel answered whimsically. If serious, quiet and dark
could be called 'whimsy'. Oddly enough, Doyle thought they could, if it was
Angel.
"Bed?" he asked, then shook his head to try to clear it.
"I mean to say, are we in bed? Uhm, I mean, are you in bed? I in you in we in ..."
Unable to complete a simple sentence, still nose to nipple with Angel's chest,
Doyle floundered. " ... bed?" Angel rescued
him.
Angel was good at that. Rescuing, that would be.
"I'm tired. You're tired. If I sleep on the couch Cordy will ask why."
Made sense to Doyle. The Angel rolled over on his side, removing that tempting chest from
drooling distance, and Doyle could think in a limited capacity again. Until he looked down.
Good God. The arse was even more incredible than the chest.
At that point, Doyle gave up on sleep. After three days with next to
none, falling asleep side by side with Angel was almost easy. Except for the
parts of him that were hard, of course.
Determined to get the hell away from Angel's bed and body, Doyle tried
everything he could think of to return his face to human normality. Nothing
worked. Willing it didn't do a thing. Concentration, meditation, scotch, anger,
sneezing, pleading -- nothing worked. Early one evening after Angel had gone
out patrolling, Doyle lay back on the bed and finally
allowed himself to think about the one thing he couldn't think about while
Angel was lying right next to him.
Dark eyes. Soft short
tangled hair. Full lips. Square jaw.
Broad shoulders. Strong hands with long, artist's
fingers. Narrow waist. Long,
beautifully-shaped legs. An arse to die for and manly
attributes that made the euphemism a truism. Curves
and planes, shadows and cream, skin soft as velvet to his touch.
Shortly into the catalog of Angel's charms, Doyle's hands got busy.
Roaming over his own chest, through his chest hair to rub at nipples and along
muscles, down to his groin to scratch and knead between his thighs. Running his
fingers through his pubic hair, weighing his testicles in his hand, sliding
back to press at the pressure points behind them. Running his
other hand over the shaft of his penis up to the glans,
lightly running a nail along the seam, tapping the vein. Gathering the
fluid at the tip and using it to ease his way through a thorough and thoroughly
well needed session of self pleasure that ended with one hand pulling his
balls, the other pulling his cock, and the top of his head feeling like it was
flying off.
Panting harshly, the echoes of his final cries still hanging in the air,
Doyle fell back against the pillows. Rolled over. Buried his face in the cool cotton.
It didn't catch.
Doyle froze in place, all the tension he'd just released rushing back at
the realization that he'd finally found a way to snap out of demon form. He
wasn't looking forward to having to jerk off every time he spiked out, though.
There had to be another way. As he was turning it over in his mind, he relaxed, relief at the fact that it was possible
bringing him a different sort of tension release. As his muscles loosened, he
could feel his face changing.
Spikes again.
Well, shite. That didn't help matters. He
growled into the pillow, then carefully moved against
it, brushing his cheek absently against its surface. His norm had been to
appear human, and after a few unfortunate accidents when he first discovered
his demon half, he'd quickly learned to suppress it until he called for the
change. It had been horrible, like going through puberty all over again.
Happily, it hadn't taken as long to endure as puberty had, but then the rewards
hadn't been all that great, either.
He concentrated hard, as he did when he was training himself back then.
With some effort, and not a little headache, he managed to change back to
human. Relaxing, congratulating himself on finally
licking the weirdness that had left him Brakken so
long, he felt the spikes pop out again. Christ on a crutch! What was it going
to take to get him back to human and staying human?
The thought made him pause. He and Angel hadn't been able to find any
explanation for either his inability to shift form or for his unusual
heartbeat, too fast for a demon and too slow for a human. The fact that he now
could shift, but had to concentrate to remain in human form, was the opposite
of what he'd done before the ... encounter with Angel's fangs. Perhaps by Angel
drawing so heavily on the demon in him, it had somehow brought the demon to the
fore, where before the human had been dominant? Turning the thought over and
over in his head, he decided that it felt right. Sighing, he set himself
to the task of reversing ten years of habit. If he was going to pass as human
again, he'd better get used to the idea of keeping his guard up at all times.
The whole idea gave him a headache. But it was better than being in
permanent spike-face. And he was both Irish and a demon half-breed. He was used
to making the best of a bad situation. He'd just have to do the best he could
with what he was given. As usual.
He moved back home, practiced remaining in human form as much as
possible, then took his courage in both hands and went back to work. Angel
looked at him searchingly, but didn't say anything. Cordelia
didn't notice anything different. That helped. Then when the vision hit, Doyle
knew he was back to what passed for normal in his mixed-up mess of a life.
The Scourge was no stranger to him. The bastards had entered his life
peripherally at the same time he was going through his second puberty, learning
to control his body so that the hitherto unknown demon aspects would remain
decently hidden. He'd been afraid of everything then : afraid of his own body,
afraid of the world discovering that he was an abomination, afraid of other
minions of Satan coming after him and sending him to hell where he was sure he
belonged. When others with the same disfiguration came to him for help, he
reacted from the fear, and turned away from them.
God punished cowards.
Doyle's particular punishment went beyond admission of his own guilt and
atonement for his part in the deaths of his demon cousins. It meant becoming
the unwilling and unwitting messenger for Powers much higher than himself. It
meant taking a destroyed life and deconstructing it further, until his only
reason for existence was to be a conduit between those Powers and their
Warrior.
It meant living his life for Angel.
It meant other things, too, things he only learned as he lived through
his past all over again. Only this time he didn't run. This time he protected,
as he hadn't in the past. This time the children survived.
It hurt, of course. It hurt when Angel snapped his neck, and he snapped
it back. He'd been surprised how fast that pain had faded. It hurt, in a
different way, when Cordelia rejected him yet again,
and he found himself unable to turn her insults aside with his usual good
humor. It hurt when Angel lived up to his track record, and prepared to
sacrifice himself to save the innocents.
He still felt the strength of Angel's hand gripping the side of his
neck, at the juncture of neck and shoulder, right where Angel had bitten him.
Saving Angel's life had been a good idea at the time, and he certainly hadn't
done it so the vampire could throw all his work away on a killer weapon from
the Scourge.
So Doyle did the hardest thing he'd ever done.
He knocked Angel clear off the catwalk, far enough down and away that
he'd have no chance to make it back up before Doyle had done what he had to do.
Then he did one of the easier things he'd ever done. He kissed Cordelia breathless.
Angel's "Doyle! No!!" was ringing in his ears as he made the leap from the catwalk
to the hanging platform from whence the weapon was suspended.
Doyle could barely see the power juncture through the brilliant white
light. It beat against him, flash-burning his eyes, sizzling
his skin through his clothing. Gritting his teeth against the heat, he ignored
everything to peer through slitted, watering eyes at
the cable powering the weapon. His fingers wrapped around the burning hot
cords, and he yanked at the connection as hard as he could, screaming with
frustration and determination as he put every last ounce of strength he had
into disabling the death-dealing weapon.
It didn't detonate. That much, he knew. The jolt had kicked him from the
platform when it had powered down, and he fell the
depth of the ship's hold. Landed on his back. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Couldn't move.
Was incredibly impressed, when he could gather a
thought back to his head, that he hadn't been instantly vaporized by the
crystal weapon.
The refugees were gathered around him, oohing
and aahing, all big eyes and grateful thanks. Doyle
looked up into the remains of the weapon, a big sheet of glass, and saw his
reflection. He was spiked out, full Brakken face, but
his skin was a funny pinkish red color. It looked great with his red eyes, but
the green spikes looked strange. He resembled nothing so much as an odd sort of
Christmas ornament. Before his thoughts could wander into even stranger
pastures, Angel shouldered his way through the crowd and knelt beside him.
There was that hand on his neck again.
"Doyle?"
Yeah. That was him. Doyle. Hero. He managed a
slight smile, and a dazed nod, but his voice wasn't quite up to talking yet.
From behind Angel, the leader of the demon half-breeds stepped forward.
"We didn't know. There are two Promised
Ones. Will you come with us? To Sanctuary?"
"The Scourge are gone." Doyle found
his voice. The leader nodded.
"But we are still outcast. This place that we've
found, it's our own. Will you come?" His glance encompassed both
men. "You are welcome."
Angel helped him into a sitting position, then
settled back. Doyle leaned into him and looked up at the man offering the
invitation. For a moment he was almost tempted. A place where
he could be himself. Where he could figure out who
himself actually was. A place where he didn't have to
hide.
But he'd go alone, if he did. Angel wasn't going to hide away on some
tropical island paradise whilst there were still innocents out there roaming
the night unprotected. Doyle smiled, wincing as the burned skin on his face
protested, leaning unobtrusively against the sturdiness of Angel's thigh
supporting his back.
"Thanks, but my life is here," he said softly. The refugee
leader looked as if he would protest, then fell silent
as Cordelia finally elbowed her way through to the
center of the group.
"What are we waiting for? Are you okay, Doyle? That was incredibly
brave, if incredibly stupid. I can't believe you kissed me. Are you still
human? Way to save everybody! So, are we still on for dinner?" She ran out
of breath and looked at him expectantly. He grinned at her.
Shook his head.
The spikes disappeared.
"Surely, Cordelia. Let's see these fine people on their way, then
it's to
Angel's hand withdrew from his shoulder. He felt the loss immediately,
but didn't know what to say to get it back. Or even if he
should say anything. So he didn't.
It took longer to get off the ship than Doyle would have liked. There
were too many thank-yous, and Angel was no help, taking
off with his patented disappearance into the night. Doyle relied on Cordelia to be the battering ram that finally got them
through the crowd of refugees, and after a quick stop at his apartment to
change into something less crispy, they made it to the restaurant as the dinner
rush was thinning out. It only took a minor bribe to get them a table. The maiter d' was distracted by Cordelia's
décolletage.
It was lovely. Cordelia was glittering, the
food was delicious, and catching sight of his reflection in his wineglass he
decided he just looked like he had a bad sunburn. Not
like he'd tried to make a supreme sacrifice to save his best friend's life.
Again.
There was a pause in the torrent of babble from the other side of the
table, and he smiled, ignoring the slight pain from his stretched, tight skin.
"Go on, then," he urged. "What happened next?" Not that he
had the slightest idea what she was talking about. But judging by her brilliant
smile, she was happy, enjoying herself, and that had been the plan. From Cordy's side of the table, it looked to be a perfect date.
She was gorgeous, he was acceptably dressed, the restaurant was exclusive and
expensive, and she was encouraged to talk about herself all night.
Doyle was bored out of his mind.
He liked Cordelia. He really did, and not just
because she was beautiful. He'd thought about this date for months, when it
seemed it was nothing but a pipe dream. Now that it was there and happening ...
all he could think about was Angel.
"Are you alright, Doyle?" Cordelia's
question broke into his abstraction. He glanced up.
Damn. She was looking concerned. Not happy. He made the effort to look
engaged. "Oh, fine, Cordelia, just a bit tired. Long day and all. But I'm interested. I like listening to
you. Go on ahead and tell me more." That seemed to reassure her, and soon
she was happily bubbling on about some audition or other with some independent
producer he'd never heard of. It set the tone for the evening. It was very
pleasant, surprisingly fun when he wasn't distracted by wicked thoughts of
Angel, and there were no sparks whatsoever.
They left the restaurant and drove for a little while, enjoying the
night air, and the lights, and the quiet. For a city that didn't sleep,
There be monsters, there.
Eventually the talk ran out, and he suggested going down to the pub for
a nightcap. Again, it was pleasant, and fun, and he
could as well have been out with his sister. He didn't drink nearly as much as
he wanted to, needing to keep tight rein on his
control so he didn't spike out in the middle of the pub and frighten the
patrons. So when he did go to walk her to her door, he was depressingly sober.
She paused at the door. "Would you like to come in?" It was
partly form, partly curiosity, very little actual sexual interest on her part
and none on his. He smiled, a genuine smile that warmed his face and relaxed her a mite.
"I don't think so, Cordelia. I had a
wonderful time tonight, and I'm not just saying that."
"But?" she dropped into the pause after he finished speaking.
"But it's not there, now, is it?" His voice was soft, and a
little wistful. She suddenly looked much more relaxed.
"I like you, Doyle. A lot. But you're
right. Friends?" She positively beamed at him.
"Friends it is," he grinned back, and pecked the end of her
nose. She laughed aloud, then let herself into her
flat, waving a little before shutting the door between them. He took a deep
breath and let it out slowly. Being at loose ends wasn't quite the way he'd
envisioned ending this evening.
He got back in his car and drove around aimlessly for awhile. The
evening was relatively young, only a little after two, and he could have found
a club to play at until he felt tired enough to go home and try to sleep. As
wound up as he felt, that should only take about three days. A mental image of
standing on a table spouting off about Betty Rubble in full demon face put the
kibosh on that idea right then.
Without making a conscious decision, he found himself walking up the
steps to Angel's offices, then winding his way down
the long way to get to Angel's living quarters without firing up the lift.
He found himself leaning up against the wall in Angel's bedroom, staring
into the darkness, vaguely impressed by his own night vision as he watched
Angel sleep. He didn't know how much time had passed before he was sitting on
the edge of the bed.
Then stretching out along his side.
Brushing the hair back from Angel's forehead.
Nuzzling Angel's neck.
Nibbling on him.
Running the edge of his elongated incisors against
the cool white column of throat, and slipping the sharpened points into the
flesh there.
Angel was dreaming, an incredibly erotic dream the likes of which he hadn't
had since he turned Drusilla. He was naked, lying in bed, trapped in the bed
linens, unable to move as she hovered over him, brushing his face with her
fingertips. Cool breath misting over his skin, along his jaw. Soft lips moving over his skin, skimming over the surface,
returning time and again to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, then
suddenly diving in and biting him. Biting and needing and drawing
together -- flashfire arousal lanced through his
body, and he thrashed, only to realize several things at once.
It wasn't a dream.
It wasn't Drusilla.
He wasn't tied down.
He vamped out, exploded from the bed and attacked his attacker, arms and
legs flying out in defensive moves too fast for a human eye to follow. His
attacker wasn't human, though, and countered every single move. By the simple expedient of wrapping himself around Angel like a
blanket and smothering his attack.
Angel fell back onto the bed, carrying his attacker with him. He didn't
recognize the vampire struggling against him, but something held him back from
releasing his full strength against the stranger. Conflicting emotions twisted
in him, to fight, to stop fighting, to hold him, to
throw him far away and protect himself ... to protect the attacker. The
complexity of his own reaction threw him, and he instinctively bit at his
attacker's neck, his oldest and most ingrained instinct coming to the fore.
He was delicious.
Angel buried his face in the other vampire's throat at the same time
that the other vampire bit into his own neck. Their arms were around one
another's bodies, their legs tangling together, groins thrusting against one
another in a frenzy of blood lust in all meanings of the phrase. The intensity
couldn't be maintained for long, and Angel screamed around the bloodied flesh
in his mouth as he climaxed.
He felt the other vampire convulse and moan at the same time.
Falling into a heap atop his erstwhile attacker, Angel felt his features
shift. He knew he should remain in vampire form as long as the threat existed,
but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to consider the man huddled in
his arms to be a threat. He pulled back just far enough to be able to see the
other vampire's face, not bothering to unplaster
their bodies from one another.
Handsome, in vampire style. Clear dark eyes, soft dark hair, creamy white
skin even paler than his own. A fine sensuous mouth, smeared with Angel's
blood, and wickedly long fangs in a surprisingly delicate jaw Long, thick
lashes blinked over those dazed eyes, once, twice. Then the other vampire shook
his head as if to clear it.
Mid-shake, that face shifted form.
Slightly reddened green-blue skin. With spines waving from it. Bright
red, still dazed, eyes.
By the end of the shake, it had shifted again, into Doyle's familiar,
creamy skinned, dark haired, blue eyed visage.
With Angel's blood on his lips.
Angel opened his mouth to ask him what the hell had happened to him,
when Doyle beat him to the punch. "Wha'
happened?" he slurred. Before Angel could so much as shrug ignorance,
Doyle's hands flew to his head, his mouth dropped open, and his eyes clenched
in pain. "Oh, damnit all to
hell!"
Deciding that questions could wait, Angel gathered Doyle up in a full-body
embrace, ignoring the stickiness pressed between them, and rocked him gently
through the agony of the vision. When the body clamped in his arms finally
stopped shaking, Angel asked quietly, "What is it?"
"Guy, in trouble. About to become vampire kibble."
Angel nodded, briskly stood Doyle up and led the way out into the night,
with a brief stop at the wardrobe to get dressed. Neither one of them said a
word, although he noticed Doyle was touching his lips with his fingertips as if
he didn't know where they'd come from or to whom they belonged.
He could relate.
They had a lot to figure out between the two of them, but first there
was a mortal to rescue. In short order, Doyle led them to the alley he'd seen
in his vision, not far from the offices. Angel spared a thought to wonder if
he'd been guided by fate or karma or the Powers That Be to set up shop in the
middle of Vampire Central, then shrugged off the thought and swung into action.
There were eight vampires running in this pack. They'd cornered a young
man in the alley, circling and taunting him, and under the dark rich tone of
his skin he was green with fright. Angel kicked the legs out from under the
first one and knocked a second one face-first into the wall. Heavy hands landed
on his shoulders but before he could turn to face the others he heard a feral
growl.
From out of the shadows at his back, Doyle, in full vampire mode, dove
forward into the remaining half dozen vampires. For a split second, Angel
wondered which side Doyle was on. He well remembered the ravenous hunger a
newly-made vampire felt. Then Doyle snapped the neck on one vampire and yanked
another off the mortal with one fist in the vampire's hair.
Angel grinned.
From there it degenerated into a free-for-all, and Angel and Doyle
worked together as if they'd been fighting as a team all their lives. The
remaining living vampires in the gang, all three of them, staggered together
and two ran for the entry to the alley. One, the oldest of the lot, snarled
back over her shoulder as she turned for one last attack.
"Filthy perversions! Tainted! You'll pay for this!" She flew at Doyle, all scorching
eyes and flashing fangs. He ducked, swept up a piece of broken wood, brought
his hand up, and spiked her. Her scream dissipated as she turned to dust.
Angel stared at the pile of ash for a moment, turning her words over in
his mind. A sound behind him caused him to turn back. Doyle was standing over
the trembling mortal. Angel was at his side in an instant, just in time to hear
Doyle say softly, "You okay, man?"
The mortal nodded jerkily. His eyes were huge in his face, but he looked less
green now that he wasn't in imminent danger of being eaten. He couldn't seem to
tear his eyes away from Doyle's face.
"Get along with ye, now," Doyle urged, and waved the man
toward the other end of the alley, the opposite direction from where the
vampires had retreated earlier. The man just kept nodding, then scrabbled away
and ran as fast as his shaking legs could carry him.
"Uhm, Doyle?" Angel asked. Doyle
turned to look at him. "Spikes," he explained.
"Oh, right," Doyle sighed, then shook his head, taking him
from demon form back to human. "I keep forgetting."
They stood for a moment, surrounded by the carnage they'd created,
looking anywhere but at each another. The silence stretched, grew awkward.
"Well, if that's all then-"
"What happened back-"
Both voices started, and stopped, simultaneously. Angel finally looked
at Doyle. It took a minute more before Doyle could look at Angel.
"We have to talk." Angel's voice, quiet but firm, echoed
by Doyle's nod. Doyle turned and headed back toward the office. Angel followed.
For all their need to talk, not another word was exchanged until they made it
all the way back and were sitting, facing one another across the small wooden
table in Angel's vastly underutilized kitchen.
Angel stared at Doyle. Doyle stared at the table top. Finally, Doyle
sighed and asked, "So, what's your take on the situation?"
"I've been thinking about that." Doyle gave him a 'no shit'
look, and the corner of Angel's mouth quirked up into what passed for his
smile. "I think the Scourge weapon didn't kill you because it only killed
mortal flesh."
"Yeah, and what am I? Chopped liver?" Doyle's face stilled. "I
guess that's the question, then, isn't it? What am I."
"I think I killed you," Angel went on. Doyle stared over at
him, an arrested look on his face. "When I drained you.
I think I killed you, and you turned. By the time you were hit by the Scourge
weapon, you weren't killed because you weren't mortal. You were half demon ...
and half vampire."
Doyle swallowed heavily. "And how do you come up with that?"
Angel licked his lips. Doyle's eyes followed every movement. "I
recognize the scent of a vampire I've created," he explained quietly.
"When you first came to me tonight, I smelled you in my sleep. I thought
you were ... someone else. Another vampire I'd created."
Doyle nodded, a small, involuntary-looking
movement. "If that's the case, then, how come I'm still with the visions?
Why do I still care what happens to humans, if I'm not one myself anymore, if I
haven't any soul?"
Angel leaned forward and captured Doyle's hands in his
own. They weren't cool, any longer, they felt
warm to his touch, slightly warmer than his own. "I think the visions are
tied to the demon half of you," he mused aloud.
A tiny sound of agreement escaped Doyle. "Yeah, that'd make sense.
They started because of the demon in me. So, what, they're not done with me
yet? Not over 'til the last man's down?"
"Something like that. I don't think
they're done with either of us," Angel agreed. "As to your soul ...
maybe that's part of the bargain. You get the visions, and you have to help me.
In return, you keep your soul."
"Bit of a matched pair, then, aren't
we." It wasn't a question. Doyle's eyes had gone huge in his face, and he
was swallowing rapidly, as if his mouth had gone dry. His gaze had dropped from
Angel's mouth to his throat, and he wasn't blinking. Angel sighed.
"Hungry?"
Doyle licked his lips in answer. Angel got up and crossed to the
refrigerator, snagging a bag of blood from the top shelf. "Have to
remember to stop by the butcher's," he muttered to himself. A presence
behind him, warmth plastered along his back, arms around his midriff, and a
busy mouth at the side of his neck informed him that Doyle had moved. With some
difficulty, he turned in Doyle's arms. Doyle's mouth immediately latched onto
his throat.
Bending his knees slightly to allow Doyle full access, Angel nipped the
top off the bag of blood and drank deeply. Arousal was gathering in his stomach
and down the back of his legs, making his fangs itch and his hands clench. He
emptied the bag and tossed it behind him, letting it fall where it would.
Reaching back with one hand while he still had some motor control, he grabbed
another bag. Shuffled them both forward and heeled the door shut. Maneuvered them both toward the bedroom, Doyle drinking happily
from him all the way back. He dropped onto the bed,
Doyle still attached, and started in on the second bag as Doyle's hands busily
stripped him of his clothing.
They had a long night ahead of them. If they were
lucky, many such nights. He cupped the back of Doyle's head with one
hand, lazily thrust his hips against Doyle's, and polished off the second pint.
He had the feeling he was going to need his strength.
fin