Fic: Reclamation
Previously posted at slashfest, but ely_jan requested I bring it over here, too - so, here I am!
Title: Reclamation
Author: spikeNdru
Fandom: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Doyle, post Not Fade Away
Rating: FR13 - Includes battle violence and M/M kissage. The plot of this story took off in unexpected ways, and the boys seemed to be more interested in making a deep, personal connection rather than in participating in any explicit smut.
Time Frame: Season 5, Immediately following NFA.
Length: 4375 words.
Disclaimer: The sandbox is Joss'; he just lets us play in it.
Many, many thanks to makd for continuing to beta my work, even when she has plenty of her own RL work to do.
Chapter One
Angel threw his arm over his eyes to protect them from the light. He frantically searched his memories. Oh, yeah. Wolfram and Hart. The Black Thorn. Demon hordes. He must have been injured, although nothing hurt. Funny. He'd thought for sure he'd die in battle. Being burned to a crisp by the sun after the battle was over was sort of . . . anti-climatic. And why was it taking so long? He should have gone up in flames at the first touch of the sun.
He moved his forearm an inch and peeked through his eyelashes. Okay. Not the sun. Just sort of a generic bright light. A really bright white light. A really bright white light that apparently wasn't going to dust him-at least not this second. Okay. He could deal. He'd figure it all out. Only, he was just so tired. Since he didn't appear to be in any immediate danger, he'd just rest for a moment. He closed his eyes.
~*~
Sometime later, consciousness slowly returned and Angel opened his eyes. He was still surrounded by the glowy white light, but it was no longer painfully bright. Maybe he was acclimating. He rolled over on his side and then used his hands to push himself to a sitting position. Okay. He could sit up, so there was at least an 'up' and a 'down' factor to the disorienting light. Good to know.
He waited a few seconds to get his bearings. If he could sit up, he could stand up, and wherever he was, he preferred to stand. He pushed himself to his feet and looked around. There wasn't anything to see, but light. It was like being in the center of one of the famous London pea soup fogs of the 19th century-only brighter.
He thrust his hands out in front of him to feel for potential obstacles and slid his feet along in a sort of gliding shuffle. It felt like cross-country skiing on the bright white snow. Or, what he imagined cross-country skiing would feel like, as he'd never actually skied, and certainly never seen the dazzle of sun on new snow. Except on TV. He'd watched the Winter Olympics at Innsbruck and it was sort of like this, he guessed.
There was no change in his surroundings, just the encompassing bright light, but Angel continued to move forward. At least he hoped he was moving forward. He could be on some kind of treadmill thingy and not actually moving at all. But he couldn't just stand here and wait around for whatever was going to happen. Oh please, let there be something gonna happen, please don't let this be all there is, 'cause that would definitely be hell. He needed to be doing something. To take charge of his fate . . .
Oh fuck! What if he was dead? What if he was dead and in hell? What if the real hell wasn't fire and brimstone and eternal physical torture? What if it was just this bright, white . . . nothingness, and he was doomed to wander here alone for eternity? He'd made a habit of doing things on his own - cutting himself off from his friends, not letting anyone in - what if this was his punishment? No sensory input . . . he'd be battier than Drusilla in no time at all!
“Angel?”
Angel froze and searched the nothingness. Had he heard something? His eyes darted back and forth as he tried to see through the whiteness. He strained his ears.
“Angel?”
“Here!” he yelled. “I'm here!”
A sense of relief washed through him. He wasn't all alone in the nothingness. There was someone else here. Someone who knew him. And right now, he didn't give a fig if it was friend or foe. He wasn't alone!
~*~
“Sorry I'm late. No one expected y' t' come 'round that fast. Thought I had plenty a' time. Guess I didn't take inta account those vampire healin' powers of yours.”
“Doyle?”
Doyle's familiar grin was just about the most beautiful thing Angel thought he'd ever seen.
“Yeah, it's me. How've'ye been?”
“Confused. Disoriented. Edging toward panic. And yourself?”
“I'm really sorry about that, Angel. I was supposed t' be there when y' woke up, but I thought I had plenty a' time. Guess I really screwed this one up.”
Doyle looked so guilty that Angel wondered exactly what Doyle had been doing to account for the delay, but he was so glad to see Doyle now that he supposed it didn't matter.
“Where are we, Doyle? What's going on? Am I dead?”
“Well . . . yeah. You're dead. In a manner a' speakin'. We're in th' Other, an' I'll explain it all t' ya, but I think we'd be a mite more comfortable talkin' over a pint.”
Doyle took Angel's hand, and they were suddenly sitting at a scarred, wooden table in a Galway pub. The dim lighting was a blessed relief from all that bright white nothingness. Angel drew the familiar smoky smell of burning peat deeply into his lungs, turned the pint of Guinness in his hands and smiled. Whatever Doyle had to tell him would be infinitely more palatable in these surroundings.
Doyle still seemed twitchy-more so than could be explained by simply being late to a rendezvous-although a fair amount of twitchiness had been a part of Doyle's make-up if Angel remembered aright. He watched Doyle fidget, waiting for him to come to the point, until even Angel started to feel twitchy. Enough was enough. It looked like Doyle needed some help to come to the point.
Angel treated Doyle to one of his patented brook-no-nonsense stares and stated, “Let's have it, Doyle. You got something to tell me, spit it out now.”
Doyle took a long draught of his Guinness, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled nervously at Angel.
“Really have t' hand it t' ya, boyo. Just when th' Powers think they've got things under control, you go an' do somethin' totally unexpected an' get their knickers all in a twist, in a manner a' speakin', because not bein' corporeal, I don't think they wear actual knickers.”
Doyle took another drink of his beer. Angel folded his arms across his chest and waited, having learned from experience that it was better to let Doyle tell things in his own way.
“Y' really threw 'em for a loop when y' asked the Oracles t' turn y' back after th' thing wi' th' Mohra demon, but that was nothin' compared t' your latest shenanigans.” Doyle shook his head and shot Angel an admiring glance. “Never a dull moment when you're involved, eh?”
“Doyle-”
Doyle chuckled and finished his beer. Another immediately appeared.
“Handy little skill you got there, Francis, but if we could please get to the point . . .”
“Here's th' thing-you've featured prominently in a number a' prophecies, yet somehow y' always manage t' do somethin' . . . unexpected. Th' Powers thought you'd be instrumental in stoppin' Acathla, an' in a way y' were-when Buffy ran y' through with a sword, it was your blood that sealed th' portal, but nobody expected you t' be th' one that called it forth in th' first place.
“Y' were supposed t' raise Connor t' be a Champion-a defender born of two vampires who had slayer powers. Some o' th' Powers originally thought you an' Buffy would raise him, but then you two went your separate ways an' then she died an' it was thought you an' Cordy would parent him instead. But then he got snatched away an' taken t' Quor'Toth an' Cordy got hijacked an' that plan was shot all t' hell an' back.”
“I know this, Doyle. Can we get to what's going on now any time in this century?”
“I'm workin' on it. Just want t' make sure y' understand th' scope o' th' problem.”
Angel sighed. Doyle was . . . Doyle. Angel took a drink of his beer and tried to look pleasant as he curbed his impatience. What did it matter anyway? Doyle said he was dead, and there were a lot less amenable places to spend one's afterlife than in a facsimile of an Irish pub with probably the best friend he'd ever had.
He'd really missed Doyle these last years. Something would happen, and his first thought would be to make a mental note to tell Doyle, and then he'd remember Doyle was gone-dead in his place-and the pain of loss would be as sharp as it had been the day Doyle sacrificed himself and died. So now that he had the chance to spend some time with Doyle, why not take advantage of it?
Angel perceptibly relaxed.
Doyle's smile lit up his whole face.
Angel took another drink of his beer and then leaned back against the high back of the oak booth.
“Go ahead, Doyle. I'll try not to interrupt again.”
Doyle grinned. “Nobody expected y' t' join up with Wolfram and Hart t' save Connor. Talk about your consternation in high places! You shoulda heard th' buzz that engendered. Th' Fang Gang smack dab in th' Belly of th' Beast. A lotta wagers were placed on how long it'd take t' corrupt you. But y' held out. Sunk further an' further into depression, but y' din't go over t' th' dark side. I should thank y' for that-I won a bundle!”
Angel felt a brief warmth inside that Doyle had bet on his incorruptibility. And then he started feeling pissed off all over again. While he was fighting blind, the Powers were making bets instead of helping him? Stupid, arrogant Powers-
Doyle nodded as if he was reading Angel's thoughts. He probably was. That was the last straw-
As if he sensed Angel's anger, Doyle rapidly continued. “Cordy gave 'em what for when her time came. She's one hell of a woman, yeah? Demanded that they let her help get y' back on your path. An' let me tell you-a royally pissed-off Cordelia Chase is somethin' t' see. Th' gods themselves did tremble.”
Doyle let out a bark of laughter, and then they both fell silent, lost in memories of Cordelia.
“Th' girl did good-got y' back on track, gave y' somethin' t' fight for. This was th' big one, Angel. There was a real chance y' could actually pull it off. Everything tied up nice an' neat. Prophecy fulfilled. An' then you go an' sign away th' Shanshu. You shoulda heard the bickerin' over that. Fisticuffs may have been involved. Never seen nothin' like it. The Powers din't know what t' do with you. Which brings me t' why we're here . . .”
Angel held up his hand. “Wait! The battle . . . what happened?”
“That was somethin' t' see. Four of you against th' Armies o' Hell. You were magnificent, Angel. But did no one ever tell y' that a vampire is prob'ly not th' best choice t' go up against a fire-breathin' dragon? Y' shoulda left the dragon t' Illyria.”
“What happened?”
“Willow an' Dawn happened. Willow'd learned a thing or two on th' astral plane, an' you bought enough time for 'em t' teleport in. Willow made with th' hocus-pocus, Illyria tapped inta Dawn's power, opened a gate an' sent the whole bloody demon army t' Shrimp World. Willow patched up Gunn enough t' get 'im t' hospital an' they're all fine. The Circle of the Black Thorn is history an' it'll be some time before th' Senior Partners regroup. Y' did it, Angel. Y' averted 'the' apocalypse an' y' should be enjoyin' a human existence about now. But you signed away th' bloody Shanshu, so now y' got a decision t' make . . . soon. First, y' get some well-deserved R&R.”
“What?”
“Take a bit o' time t' process everything I've said. We'll hang out together, I'll show y' around. Relax, take it easy, an' then we'll talk again.”
Angel wondered if he'd fallen down a rabbit hole. This made no sense. His future hung in the balance and he was supposed to take a vacation? But there must be a reason . . .
Angel shrugged. The battle was over; his remaining friends were okay. And he did trust Doyle more than anyone he could think of right now. He'd discover what was going on in good time. A few days with no worries or responsibilities sounded great.
It was the unlikeliness of that last thought that convinced him. Yep. He was definitely in Bizarro-World.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Chapter 2
Angel stood in the front room of the pub, looking out at the mist drifting past the door. The shop fronts across the way were mysteriously veiled and the street lights wore golden halos. Doyle had told him that he could create his own reality. He could choose to be anywhere in the world he felt comfortable, or he could design his own world if he chose. He'd traveled far and wide during his long life. Where did he feel most comfortable? Where was the one place in which he truly belonged? Angel closed his eyes and stepped out of the door of the pub-
-into his own underground apartment at the first location of Angel Investigations.
“Good choice,” Doyle commented as he took in the familiar setting.
“This isn't real,” Angel argued. “It was blown up years ago-”
“Yeah,” Doyle agreed. “It was blown up, I'm dead, an' you're in transition. Yet, here we both are. I asked y' t' create th' place you felt most comfortable an' apparently th' bat cave it is. So it's as real as it needs t' be, for now.”
Doyle turned to reach for the kettle to make tea, when his legs buckled and he grabbed for the sink. He slapped a hand to his head as the pain tore through his skull like an out-of-control lorry.
“Th' docks . . .” he gritted out. “A freighter . . . smugglin' in some illegal Peruvian artifacts . . . includin' a rather nasty warrior . . . god . . . demon . . . somethin' that y' really don't want loose in LA . . . An' did y' have t' give me the headaches back? I've done my time. I'm supposed t' be beyond th' mortal coil!”
Angel grinned. He felt happier than he had in years. He was back doing what he did best - making a difference, one vision at a time. No employees, no compromises, no charging clients, no invoices or reporting to liaisons - just him and Doyle, doing their bit to help.
He threw his arm around Doyle's shoulders and handed him a battle axe as he hefted his own broadsword.
“Quit bitching, Doyle-we've got a warrior/god/demon thingy to stop!”
~*~
From Angel's perspective, the days slipped into weeks, and he was content. He and Doyle spent time researching, and Doyle developed contacts at the newspapers so they got a heads-up on the freaky, unusual cases. Many of them turned out to have demonic components, and Angel and Doyle Investigations went to work.
They also spent some time in the seedy neighborhood bars Doyle preferred-shooting pool, playing darts and just relaxing in each other's company over a pint or two. They grew closer, and Angel found himself confiding in Doyle things he'd never been able to tell anyone. Somehow, Doyle made him feel that he wasn't a terrible person-an evil, unredeemable thing. He began, instead, to see himself as a person who had done terrible things-committed atrocious actions, which he deeply regretted. He couldn't change the past. He couldn't make amends. He could only choose what he did now and would do in the future.
He had lived with the miasma of overwhelming guilt for so long, that the inner change from guilt to regret to true repentance was almost too subtle to be remarked. He only realized how much the paralyzing guilt had crippled him after it was gone. The guilt had kept him from a real connection with anyone. He now accepted that he could change-had changed-and accepted that he could make a difference in the world.
He couldn't make a difference by selfishly trying to balance the scales, making his every act an attempt at reparation. But he could, simply because he wanted to help those who couldn't help themselves. Doyle had given him a new outlook . . . a new life. He wanted to say a 'spiritual awakening', but that sounded embarrassingly pretentious, even in his mind.
~*~
They were up in the Hills, following the trail of a Rhez'nekk demon, when Doyle's body jackknifed in the passenger seat as he clutched his head and moaned.
“Some kids . . . foolin' around . . . stole a book . . . callin' up demons . . . we're near . . . hurry!”
Doyle propped his elbows on his knees and massaged his temples as he gave Angel directions. Angel made a hard right at the first turn-off, then a left. They were traveling so fast, Doyle almost missed the signs of the hidden driveway that he had seen in the vision. Angel stepped on the brakes as Doyle grabbed for the dashboard. Angel slammed the car into reverse, back into drive, and then fishtailed up the narrow, overgrown drive. The burned ruins of a 1920's Italianate mansion stood starkly in the moonlight beyond the open gate. Angel screeched the car to a halt and leapt over the door of the Plymouth. A PT Cruiser was parked behind a screen of wisteria vines. He unlocked the trunk of the Plymouth and hefted his sword, as Doyle grabbed the crossbow.
They ran around the side of the mansion, where a glow of light indicated a less damaged wing. The smell of fresh blood and offal alerted Angel to what they would find, before he crashed through the large window. Doyle clambered after him, and his pale skin took on a decidedly greenish hue when he saw the broken bodies of the three teens. A red glow, very high up along the back wall caught Angel's attention.
“Doyle! It looks like a Mohra-”
“If y' can wound it near th' kids-”
Angel went on the attack. This Mohra was huge-at least twice the size of the one he'd fought years ago. Angel feinted with the sword. He couldn't kill it immediately, although he knew how to do so. If he killed it, the dying kids wouldn't have a chance. He needed to herd it near enough to the teens that he could spray the Mohra's regenerative blood on them without allowing them to be trampled by the battle.
Angel felt the rush of air from the swing of the Mohra's huge sword and he managed to jump back and parry just in time. He amended his game plan to add: Herd Mohra near teenagers; cut Mohra; mix Mohra's blood with the kids' - kill Mohra before it decapitated him and took him out of the game.
Doyle fired the crossbow and the Mohra spun to face the new attacker. It made a flying leap for Doyle, with Angel in hot pursuit. The demon's upper body was covered in armor, and an attack there wouldn't accomplish his goals. The Mohra reached for Doyle as Angel threw himself to the ground, stabbing upward toward the femoral artery. Doyle fired the crossbow directly into the jewel in the Mohra's forehead as Angel rolled, flinging the Mohra blood from his sword in the direction of the eviscerated teens. He shut his eyes tightly and pressed his lips together, careful not to get any of the Mohra blood into his own system. The Mohra disintegrated, and Angel crawled toward the kids, wiping the flat edge of the sword across their bodies.
The green glow of the Mohra blood working into their systems spread throughout their bodies and the two boys and the girl began to stir. They sat up with looks of terror on their faces. Angel faded back into the shadows.
“What happened?” “Who are you?” “I thought for sure we were dead!” “What was that . . . thing?”
Doyle held up his hands to halt the babble of questions. “I trust ye'll not be callin' up any more demons in future?”
Three scared faces frantically moved back and forth before him, as the kids unanimously shook their heads 'no'.
“I'll be takin' th' book wi' me, then.”
Doyle held out his hand, and the girl scrambled to a broken circle of colored sand and tipped-over candles. She clutched the book, covered with blood and melted candle wax, and extended it to Doyle. She then backed away, her terrified eyes never leaving his face.
Doyle slung the crossbow over his shoulder and took the weighty tome from her trembling hands.
“G'wan with y' - get outta here.”
All three scrambled for the smashed window, not wanting to spend any further time in the house.
“An' I hope y' learned yer lesson-no more messin' wi' forces y' don't understand,” Doyle called after them.
“No, sir!” one of the boys squeaked, as he ran to catch up with his companions.
~*~
Back in the apartment, Angel poured them both a drink. Doyle swallowed his immediately and held out his glass for a refill. Angel obliged, and then carried the bottle to the living room, where he sank down on the sofa. Doyle sat beside Angel, and rolled his glass between his palms, warming the whiskey. He took a sip, leaned over to place the glass on the end table and cleared his throat.
“I happened t' notice,” Doyle began, conversationally, “That y' made a determined effort not t' get any of th' Mohra blood on yourself.”
Angel took a drink of his whiskey and remained silent.
“An' I was wonderin' about that,” Doyle continued. “Y' knew ye'd signed away th' Shanshu, an' here was a god-given opportunity for y' t' become human-no strings attached-an' yet y' turned it down again.”
Angel smiled briefly. “Being human wouldn't change things. You helped me finally 'get' that, Doyle. See, ever since I learned about the Shanshu, I saw it as a reward-an external sign that I'd been forgiven and would have a chance to start over with a brand new life. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I didn't deserve to be forgiven.
“When the Black Thorn demanded that I sign away any claim to the Shanshu prophecy, I felt . . . free. Free of trying to live up to impossible demands. Free of giving control of my 'destiny' to some shadowy organization with the power to decide when and if I was good enough. They had that power because I gave it to them.
“During my time here with you, I've finally realized that no matter who forgave me, it wouldn't matter until I was able to forgive myself. To accept that 'Angelus' wasn't some alter-ego that took over my will, but that the seeds for that evil were already in me. The demon brought them out in more terrible ways than I hope I would ever have done if I'd lived and died my allotted life span, but the ability was already there. It's there in all of us. There are human serial killers that come close to rivaling Angelus at his most creative. I get that now. It's not whether you're human or demon that matters. It's the choices you make every single day-to act on your baser instincts, or to consciously choose to be the best person you can be this moment, regardless of what you've done in the past.
“Even if the best 'person' you can be happens to be a demon. Or a half-demon-like you and me. I don't need to be human, Doyle, I just need to remember who I want to be. And that's someone who, even if he makes a mistake, who fucks up royally, gets back up and tries again. Who never stops trying.”
Doyle nodded. A brief flash of yearning, followed by resignation, showed in his eyes before they shone with pride. “Ye've made your decision. An', once again, I'll never know if this is a face y' could ever learn t' love . . .”
Doyle placed his hands gently on the sides of Angel's face as he drew Angel toward him. He touched his lips to Angel's, and felt Angel's strong arms encircle him and pull him close. Doyle closed his eyes as he felt the firm pressure of Angel's lips responding to him . . . kissing him back. His hands dropped to grip Angel's shoulders and he tightened his grasp, as if he could keep Angel safe with him for just a little longer.
The tip of Angel's tongue traced his lips, and Doyle felt, more than heard, a whispered breath saying “Thank you.” Doyle's hands clutched at empty air, and he could never be sure if he'd actually heard, or only imagined, the faint “I could.”
Angel opened his eyes to sensations of cold and wet and pain. His clothes were plastered to his body, and he was bleeding from numerous cuts and gashes. He was pretty sure his right shoulder was dislocated, and his arm lay at an unnatural angle and might be broken.
He felt a persistent tugging on his ankles as he was dragged inch by painful inch across a hard, broken surface. Each movement sent a jolt of pain through his arm and his thigh, which seemed to be missing a chunk of muscle. He lifted his head a fraction and blinked blood out of his eyes to look at his thigh. The wound was ringed by the impressions of very large teeth.
“Good, you're awake. How 'bout some help movin' this bloody great carcass of yours before the sun comes up an' ruins all my hard work?”
Angel looked at Spike, as battered and bloody as himself, lip caught between his teeth in concentration, as he fought to drag Angel away from the rapidly brightening sky. Spike closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, as he gave a final heave and they both tumbled through the battered doorway of a derelict building, and down a broken flight of stairs just as the sun rose on a bright new day.
The End
Title: Reclamation
Author: spikeNdru
Fandom: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Doyle, post Not Fade Away
Rating: FR13 - Includes battle violence and M/M kissage. The plot of this story took off in unexpected ways, and the boys seemed to be more interested in making a deep, personal connection rather than in participating in any explicit smut.
Time Frame: Season 5, Immediately following NFA.
Length: 4375 words.
Disclaimer: The sandbox is Joss'; he just lets us play in it.
Many, many thanks to makd for continuing to beta my work, even when she has plenty of her own RL work to do.
Chapter One
Angel threw his arm over his eyes to protect them from the light. He frantically searched his memories. Oh, yeah. Wolfram and Hart. The Black Thorn. Demon hordes. He must have been injured, although nothing hurt. Funny. He'd thought for sure he'd die in battle. Being burned to a crisp by the sun after the battle was over was sort of . . . anti-climatic. And why was it taking so long? He should have gone up in flames at the first touch of the sun.
He moved his forearm an inch and peeked through his eyelashes. Okay. Not the sun. Just sort of a generic bright light. A really bright white light. A really bright white light that apparently wasn't going to dust him-at least not this second. Okay. He could deal. He'd figure it all out. Only, he was just so tired. Since he didn't appear to be in any immediate danger, he'd just rest for a moment. He closed his eyes.
~*~
Sometime later, consciousness slowly returned and Angel opened his eyes. He was still surrounded by the glowy white light, but it was no longer painfully bright. Maybe he was acclimating. He rolled over on his side and then used his hands to push himself to a sitting position. Okay. He could sit up, so there was at least an 'up' and a 'down' factor to the disorienting light. Good to know.
He waited a few seconds to get his bearings. If he could sit up, he could stand up, and wherever he was, he preferred to stand. He pushed himself to his feet and looked around. There wasn't anything to see, but light. It was like being in the center of one of the famous London pea soup fogs of the 19th century-only brighter.
He thrust his hands out in front of him to feel for potential obstacles and slid his feet along in a sort of gliding shuffle. It felt like cross-country skiing on the bright white snow. Or, what he imagined cross-country skiing would feel like, as he'd never actually skied, and certainly never seen the dazzle of sun on new snow. Except on TV. He'd watched the Winter Olympics at Innsbruck and it was sort of like this, he guessed.
There was no change in his surroundings, just the encompassing bright light, but Angel continued to move forward. At least he hoped he was moving forward. He could be on some kind of treadmill thingy and not actually moving at all. But he couldn't just stand here and wait around for whatever was going to happen. Oh please, let there be something gonna happen, please don't let this be all there is, 'cause that would definitely be hell. He needed to be doing something. To take charge of his fate . . .
Oh fuck! What if he was dead? What if he was dead and in hell? What if the real hell wasn't fire and brimstone and eternal physical torture? What if it was just this bright, white . . . nothingness, and he was doomed to wander here alone for eternity? He'd made a habit of doing things on his own - cutting himself off from his friends, not letting anyone in - what if this was his punishment? No sensory input . . . he'd be battier than Drusilla in no time at all!
“Angel?”
Angel froze and searched the nothingness. Had he heard something? His eyes darted back and forth as he tried to see through the whiteness. He strained his ears.
“Angel?”
“Here!” he yelled. “I'm here!”
A sense of relief washed through him. He wasn't all alone in the nothingness. There was someone else here. Someone who knew him. And right now, he didn't give a fig if it was friend or foe. He wasn't alone!
~*~
“Sorry I'm late. No one expected y' t' come 'round that fast. Thought I had plenty a' time. Guess I didn't take inta account those vampire healin' powers of yours.”
“Doyle?”
Doyle's familiar grin was just about the most beautiful thing Angel thought he'd ever seen.
“Yeah, it's me. How've'ye been?”
“Confused. Disoriented. Edging toward panic. And yourself?”
“I'm really sorry about that, Angel. I was supposed t' be there when y' woke up, but I thought I had plenty a' time. Guess I really screwed this one up.”
Doyle looked so guilty that Angel wondered exactly what Doyle had been doing to account for the delay, but he was so glad to see Doyle now that he supposed it didn't matter.
“Where are we, Doyle? What's going on? Am I dead?”
“Well . . . yeah. You're dead. In a manner a' speakin'. We're in th' Other, an' I'll explain it all t' ya, but I think we'd be a mite more comfortable talkin' over a pint.”
Doyle took Angel's hand, and they were suddenly sitting at a scarred, wooden table in a Galway pub. The dim lighting was a blessed relief from all that bright white nothingness. Angel drew the familiar smoky smell of burning peat deeply into his lungs, turned the pint of Guinness in his hands and smiled. Whatever Doyle had to tell him would be infinitely more palatable in these surroundings.
Doyle still seemed twitchy-more so than could be explained by simply being late to a rendezvous-although a fair amount of twitchiness had been a part of Doyle's make-up if Angel remembered aright. He watched Doyle fidget, waiting for him to come to the point, until even Angel started to feel twitchy. Enough was enough. It looked like Doyle needed some help to come to the point.
Angel treated Doyle to one of his patented brook-no-nonsense stares and stated, “Let's have it, Doyle. You got something to tell me, spit it out now.”
Doyle took a long draught of his Guinness, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled nervously at Angel.
“Really have t' hand it t' ya, boyo. Just when th' Powers think they've got things under control, you go an' do somethin' totally unexpected an' get their knickers all in a twist, in a manner a' speakin', because not bein' corporeal, I don't think they wear actual knickers.”
Doyle took another drink of his beer. Angel folded his arms across his chest and waited, having learned from experience that it was better to let Doyle tell things in his own way.
“Y' really threw 'em for a loop when y' asked the Oracles t' turn y' back after th' thing wi' th' Mohra demon, but that was nothin' compared t' your latest shenanigans.” Doyle shook his head and shot Angel an admiring glance. “Never a dull moment when you're involved, eh?”
“Doyle-”
Doyle chuckled and finished his beer. Another immediately appeared.
“Handy little skill you got there, Francis, but if we could please get to the point . . .”
“Here's th' thing-you've featured prominently in a number a' prophecies, yet somehow y' always manage t' do somethin' . . . unexpected. Th' Powers thought you'd be instrumental in stoppin' Acathla, an' in a way y' were-when Buffy ran y' through with a sword, it was your blood that sealed th' portal, but nobody expected you t' be th' one that called it forth in th' first place.
“Y' were supposed t' raise Connor t' be a Champion-a defender born of two vampires who had slayer powers. Some o' th' Powers originally thought you an' Buffy would raise him, but then you two went your separate ways an' then she died an' it was thought you an' Cordy would parent him instead. But then he got snatched away an' taken t' Quor'Toth an' Cordy got hijacked an' that plan was shot all t' hell an' back.”
“I know this, Doyle. Can we get to what's going on now any time in this century?”
“I'm workin' on it. Just want t' make sure y' understand th' scope o' th' problem.”
Angel sighed. Doyle was . . . Doyle. Angel took a drink of his beer and tried to look pleasant as he curbed his impatience. What did it matter anyway? Doyle said he was dead, and there were a lot less amenable places to spend one's afterlife than in a facsimile of an Irish pub with probably the best friend he'd ever had.
He'd really missed Doyle these last years. Something would happen, and his first thought would be to make a mental note to tell Doyle, and then he'd remember Doyle was gone-dead in his place-and the pain of loss would be as sharp as it had been the day Doyle sacrificed himself and died. So now that he had the chance to spend some time with Doyle, why not take advantage of it?
Angel perceptibly relaxed.
Doyle's smile lit up his whole face.
Angel took another drink of his beer and then leaned back against the high back of the oak booth.
“Go ahead, Doyle. I'll try not to interrupt again.”
Doyle grinned. “Nobody expected y' t' join up with Wolfram and Hart t' save Connor. Talk about your consternation in high places! You shoulda heard th' buzz that engendered. Th' Fang Gang smack dab in th' Belly of th' Beast. A lotta wagers were placed on how long it'd take t' corrupt you. But y' held out. Sunk further an' further into depression, but y' din't go over t' th' dark side. I should thank y' for that-I won a bundle!”
Angel felt a brief warmth inside that Doyle had bet on his incorruptibility. And then he started feeling pissed off all over again. While he was fighting blind, the Powers were making bets instead of helping him? Stupid, arrogant Powers-
Doyle nodded as if he was reading Angel's thoughts. He probably was. That was the last straw-
As if he sensed Angel's anger, Doyle rapidly continued. “Cordy gave 'em what for when her time came. She's one hell of a woman, yeah? Demanded that they let her help get y' back on your path. An' let me tell you-a royally pissed-off Cordelia Chase is somethin' t' see. Th' gods themselves did tremble.”
Doyle let out a bark of laughter, and then they both fell silent, lost in memories of Cordelia.
“Th' girl did good-got y' back on track, gave y' somethin' t' fight for. This was th' big one, Angel. There was a real chance y' could actually pull it off. Everything tied up nice an' neat. Prophecy fulfilled. An' then you go an' sign away th' Shanshu. You shoulda heard the bickerin' over that. Fisticuffs may have been involved. Never seen nothin' like it. The Powers din't know what t' do with you. Which brings me t' why we're here . . .”
Angel held up his hand. “Wait! The battle . . . what happened?”
“That was somethin' t' see. Four of you against th' Armies o' Hell. You were magnificent, Angel. But did no one ever tell y' that a vampire is prob'ly not th' best choice t' go up against a fire-breathin' dragon? Y' shoulda left the dragon t' Illyria.”
“What happened?”
“Willow an' Dawn happened. Willow'd learned a thing or two on th' astral plane, an' you bought enough time for 'em t' teleport in. Willow made with th' hocus-pocus, Illyria tapped inta Dawn's power, opened a gate an' sent the whole bloody demon army t' Shrimp World. Willow patched up Gunn enough t' get 'im t' hospital an' they're all fine. The Circle of the Black Thorn is history an' it'll be some time before th' Senior Partners regroup. Y' did it, Angel. Y' averted 'the' apocalypse an' y' should be enjoyin' a human existence about now. But you signed away th' bloody Shanshu, so now y' got a decision t' make . . . soon. First, y' get some well-deserved R&R.”
“What?”
“Take a bit o' time t' process everything I've said. We'll hang out together, I'll show y' around. Relax, take it easy, an' then we'll talk again.”
Angel wondered if he'd fallen down a rabbit hole. This made no sense. His future hung in the balance and he was supposed to take a vacation? But there must be a reason . . .
Angel shrugged. The battle was over; his remaining friends were okay. And he did trust Doyle more than anyone he could think of right now. He'd discover what was going on in good time. A few days with no worries or responsibilities sounded great.
It was the unlikeliness of that last thought that convinced him. Yep. He was definitely in Bizarro-World.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Chapter 2
Angel stood in the front room of the pub, looking out at the mist drifting past the door. The shop fronts across the way were mysteriously veiled and the street lights wore golden halos. Doyle had told him that he could create his own reality. He could choose to be anywhere in the world he felt comfortable, or he could design his own world if he chose. He'd traveled far and wide during his long life. Where did he feel most comfortable? Where was the one place in which he truly belonged? Angel closed his eyes and stepped out of the door of the pub-
-into his own underground apartment at the first location of Angel Investigations.
“Good choice,” Doyle commented as he took in the familiar setting.
“This isn't real,” Angel argued. “It was blown up years ago-”
“Yeah,” Doyle agreed. “It was blown up, I'm dead, an' you're in transition. Yet, here we both are. I asked y' t' create th' place you felt most comfortable an' apparently th' bat cave it is. So it's as real as it needs t' be, for now.”
Doyle turned to reach for the kettle to make tea, when his legs buckled and he grabbed for the sink. He slapped a hand to his head as the pain tore through his skull like an out-of-control lorry.
“Th' docks . . .” he gritted out. “A freighter . . . smugglin' in some illegal Peruvian artifacts . . . includin' a rather nasty warrior . . . god . . . demon . . . somethin' that y' really don't want loose in LA . . . An' did y' have t' give me the headaches back? I've done my time. I'm supposed t' be beyond th' mortal coil!”
Angel grinned. He felt happier than he had in years. He was back doing what he did best - making a difference, one vision at a time. No employees, no compromises, no charging clients, no invoices or reporting to liaisons - just him and Doyle, doing their bit to help.
He threw his arm around Doyle's shoulders and handed him a battle axe as he hefted his own broadsword.
“Quit bitching, Doyle-we've got a warrior/god/demon thingy to stop!”
~*~
From Angel's perspective, the days slipped into weeks, and he was content. He and Doyle spent time researching, and Doyle developed contacts at the newspapers so they got a heads-up on the freaky, unusual cases. Many of them turned out to have demonic components, and Angel and Doyle Investigations went to work.
They also spent some time in the seedy neighborhood bars Doyle preferred-shooting pool, playing darts and just relaxing in each other's company over a pint or two. They grew closer, and Angel found himself confiding in Doyle things he'd never been able to tell anyone. Somehow, Doyle made him feel that he wasn't a terrible person-an evil, unredeemable thing. He began, instead, to see himself as a person who had done terrible things-committed atrocious actions, which he deeply regretted. He couldn't change the past. He couldn't make amends. He could only choose what he did now and would do in the future.
He had lived with the miasma of overwhelming guilt for so long, that the inner change from guilt to regret to true repentance was almost too subtle to be remarked. He only realized how much the paralyzing guilt had crippled him after it was gone. The guilt had kept him from a real connection with anyone. He now accepted that he could change-had changed-and accepted that he could make a difference in the world.
He couldn't make a difference by selfishly trying to balance the scales, making his every act an attempt at reparation. But he could, simply because he wanted to help those who couldn't help themselves. Doyle had given him a new outlook . . . a new life. He wanted to say a 'spiritual awakening', but that sounded embarrassingly pretentious, even in his mind.
~*~
They were up in the Hills, following the trail of a Rhez'nekk demon, when Doyle's body jackknifed in the passenger seat as he clutched his head and moaned.
“Some kids . . . foolin' around . . . stole a book . . . callin' up demons . . . we're near . . . hurry!”
Doyle propped his elbows on his knees and massaged his temples as he gave Angel directions. Angel made a hard right at the first turn-off, then a left. They were traveling so fast, Doyle almost missed the signs of the hidden driveway that he had seen in the vision. Angel stepped on the brakes as Doyle grabbed for the dashboard. Angel slammed the car into reverse, back into drive, and then fishtailed up the narrow, overgrown drive. The burned ruins of a 1920's Italianate mansion stood starkly in the moonlight beyond the open gate. Angel screeched the car to a halt and leapt over the door of the Plymouth. A PT Cruiser was parked behind a screen of wisteria vines. He unlocked the trunk of the Plymouth and hefted his sword, as Doyle grabbed the crossbow.
They ran around the side of the mansion, where a glow of light indicated a less damaged wing. The smell of fresh blood and offal alerted Angel to what they would find, before he crashed through the large window. Doyle clambered after him, and his pale skin took on a decidedly greenish hue when he saw the broken bodies of the three teens. A red glow, very high up along the back wall caught Angel's attention.
“Doyle! It looks like a Mohra-”
“If y' can wound it near th' kids-”
Angel went on the attack. This Mohra was huge-at least twice the size of the one he'd fought years ago. Angel feinted with the sword. He couldn't kill it immediately, although he knew how to do so. If he killed it, the dying kids wouldn't have a chance. He needed to herd it near enough to the teens that he could spray the Mohra's regenerative blood on them without allowing them to be trampled by the battle.
Angel felt the rush of air from the swing of the Mohra's huge sword and he managed to jump back and parry just in time. He amended his game plan to add: Herd Mohra near teenagers; cut Mohra; mix Mohra's blood with the kids' - kill Mohra before it decapitated him and took him out of the game.
Doyle fired the crossbow and the Mohra spun to face the new attacker. It made a flying leap for Doyle, with Angel in hot pursuit. The demon's upper body was covered in armor, and an attack there wouldn't accomplish his goals. The Mohra reached for Doyle as Angel threw himself to the ground, stabbing upward toward the femoral artery. Doyle fired the crossbow directly into the jewel in the Mohra's forehead as Angel rolled, flinging the Mohra blood from his sword in the direction of the eviscerated teens. He shut his eyes tightly and pressed his lips together, careful not to get any of the Mohra blood into his own system. The Mohra disintegrated, and Angel crawled toward the kids, wiping the flat edge of the sword across their bodies.
The green glow of the Mohra blood working into their systems spread throughout their bodies and the two boys and the girl began to stir. They sat up with looks of terror on their faces. Angel faded back into the shadows.
“What happened?” “Who are you?” “I thought for sure we were dead!” “What was that . . . thing?”
Doyle held up his hands to halt the babble of questions. “I trust ye'll not be callin' up any more demons in future?”
Three scared faces frantically moved back and forth before him, as the kids unanimously shook their heads 'no'.
“I'll be takin' th' book wi' me, then.”
Doyle held out his hand, and the girl scrambled to a broken circle of colored sand and tipped-over candles. She clutched the book, covered with blood and melted candle wax, and extended it to Doyle. She then backed away, her terrified eyes never leaving his face.
Doyle slung the crossbow over his shoulder and took the weighty tome from her trembling hands.
“G'wan with y' - get outta here.”
All three scrambled for the smashed window, not wanting to spend any further time in the house.
“An' I hope y' learned yer lesson-no more messin' wi' forces y' don't understand,” Doyle called after them.
“No, sir!” one of the boys squeaked, as he ran to catch up with his companions.
~*~
Back in the apartment, Angel poured them both a drink. Doyle swallowed his immediately and held out his glass for a refill. Angel obliged, and then carried the bottle to the living room, where he sank down on the sofa. Doyle sat beside Angel, and rolled his glass between his palms, warming the whiskey. He took a sip, leaned over to place the glass on the end table and cleared his throat.
“I happened t' notice,” Doyle began, conversationally, “That y' made a determined effort not t' get any of th' Mohra blood on yourself.”
Angel took a drink of his whiskey and remained silent.
“An' I was wonderin' about that,” Doyle continued. “Y' knew ye'd signed away th' Shanshu, an' here was a god-given opportunity for y' t' become human-no strings attached-an' yet y' turned it down again.”
Angel smiled briefly. “Being human wouldn't change things. You helped me finally 'get' that, Doyle. See, ever since I learned about the Shanshu, I saw it as a reward-an external sign that I'd been forgiven and would have a chance to start over with a brand new life. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I didn't deserve to be forgiven.
“When the Black Thorn demanded that I sign away any claim to the Shanshu prophecy, I felt . . . free. Free of trying to live up to impossible demands. Free of giving control of my 'destiny' to some shadowy organization with the power to decide when and if I was good enough. They had that power because I gave it to them.
“During my time here with you, I've finally realized that no matter who forgave me, it wouldn't matter until I was able to forgive myself. To accept that 'Angelus' wasn't some alter-ego that took over my will, but that the seeds for that evil were already in me. The demon brought them out in more terrible ways than I hope I would ever have done if I'd lived and died my allotted life span, but the ability was already there. It's there in all of us. There are human serial killers that come close to rivaling Angelus at his most creative. I get that now. It's not whether you're human or demon that matters. It's the choices you make every single day-to act on your baser instincts, or to consciously choose to be the best person you can be this moment, regardless of what you've done in the past.
“Even if the best 'person' you can be happens to be a demon. Or a half-demon-like you and me. I don't need to be human, Doyle, I just need to remember who I want to be. And that's someone who, even if he makes a mistake, who fucks up royally, gets back up and tries again. Who never stops trying.”
Doyle nodded. A brief flash of yearning, followed by resignation, showed in his eyes before they shone with pride. “Ye've made your decision. An', once again, I'll never know if this is a face y' could ever learn t' love . . .”
Doyle placed his hands gently on the sides of Angel's face as he drew Angel toward him. He touched his lips to Angel's, and felt Angel's strong arms encircle him and pull him close. Doyle closed his eyes as he felt the firm pressure of Angel's lips responding to him . . . kissing him back. His hands dropped to grip Angel's shoulders and he tightened his grasp, as if he could keep Angel safe with him for just a little longer.
The tip of Angel's tongue traced his lips, and Doyle felt, more than heard, a whispered breath saying “Thank you.” Doyle's hands clutched at empty air, and he could never be sure if he'd actually heard, or only imagined, the faint “I could.”
Angel opened his eyes to sensations of cold and wet and pain. His clothes were plastered to his body, and he was bleeding from numerous cuts and gashes. He was pretty sure his right shoulder was dislocated, and his arm lay at an unnatural angle and might be broken.
He felt a persistent tugging on his ankles as he was dragged inch by painful inch across a hard, broken surface. Each movement sent a jolt of pain through his arm and his thigh, which seemed to be missing a chunk of muscle. He lifted his head a fraction and blinked blood out of his eyes to look at his thigh. The wound was ringed by the impressions of very large teeth.
“Good, you're awake. How 'bout some help movin' this bloody great carcass of yours before the sun comes up an' ruins all my hard work?”
Angel looked at Spike, as battered and bloody as himself, lip caught between his teeth in concentration, as he fought to drag Angel away from the rapidly brightening sky. Spike closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, as he gave a final heave and they both tumbled through the battered doorway of a derelict building, and down a broken flight of stairs just as the sun rose on a bright new day.
The End