Angel/Doyle, NC-17, Strawberry Fields, 6/?
Firstly, hello to all the new people! There seem to be a few of you. ^_^ And...okay, actually that was about it. Enjoy the chapter. ;)
Title: Strawberry Fields, 6/?
Author: Keelywolfe
Series: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Doyle
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Any latecomers can find all the other parts here
~~*~~
Doyle had refused to go home.
Angel's argument that he didn't need to come to Sunnydale had been very persistent and well thought out, covering all the major points with a flat, "You're not coming."
Unfortunately, Doyle's argument had been better. "Oh, right, and when they," he jerked a thumb upward, "Decide we haven't been tangoing enough, I'm the one they zap. Forget it."
It was the first time Angel had been argued down by another man wearing his clothes. They stopped at Doyle's apartment first because if his normal wardrobe was a little unusual, Angel's baggy sweats and a t-shirt were not an improvement. He'd insisted that Angel go up to the apartment with him, even into the bedroom while he quickly changed and threw a spare set of clothes into a bag, watching him suspiciously the entire time like he was afraid Angel would make a break for the door and leave him there.
Not that the idea didn't have some appeal but since Doyle knew how to drive, it was a moot point.
The ride had been in silence with Doyle curled in his seat, napping, and Angel listening to the Wednesday 80's flashback on KCAL. They pulled into a small, garishly neon motel outside of the city limits just after three and he left Doyle in the car while he paid for the room, keeping half an eye on his sleeping form through a large, dirty glass window. They weren't quite in Sunnydale but that didn't make it any safer to roam the streets at night.
He took the keycard from a bored-looking teenager with a rash of acne whose eyes barely left the small TV screen on the back of the counter long enough to ring him up. Doyle hadn't so much as moved when he returned and there was a growing patch of dampness on his left shoulder where he was drooling in his sleep. Angel nudged the dry side gently, trying not to startle him. It had no effect and he tried it again, harder, to no avail. How was this man still alive? He could sleep through his own murder.
"Doyle," he whispered, then louder, "Doyle!"
"Hmmzat?" Came a sleepy murmur. "Ang'?"
Sleepy green eyes peered up at him, blinking rapidly. There was a wet trail on his cheek that Doyle rubbed at clumsily with the back of his hand and the sight of him, rumpled and sleepy, made Angel smile. The poor guy actually looked cute.
"Hey, we're here and you're not spending the night in the car because I'd like you to be alive in the morning, so you can either get out or I can carry you to the room. Your call."
Doyle was out of the car with almost vampiric speed and he glared at Angel, who wasn't bothering to hide a smirk. "I can walk, thanks," he said with icy dignity, and proceeded to do so for about ten feet, until he stopped and walked back. "Mind telling me the room number?"
Silently, Angel handed him the key card and retrieved their luggage before following him up to the second floor mezzanine. It took Doyle two tries to open the door, muttering under his breath the entire time and when he finally got it open, he stopped just inside the door so abruptly that Angel walked right into him, nearly sending them both to the floor.
"What?" he frowned, pushing Doyle behind him automatically as he peered into the dark room. Just what they needed, this place was probably a distant cousin to the Bates motel. Inside it looked worse, neon giving way to avocado carpeting and lamps with velvety yellow shades stationed on either side of the bed. He wouldn't be surprised to find a painting of Elvis's last supper in the bathroom. Ugly, yes, but he didn't see anything amiss. "What's wrong?"
He heard Doyle swallow hard, "Well, it's just got the one, you know?"
One wha-one king-sized bed. He hadn't even thought about it when he paid for the room, "I'm sorry, I'll go back and-" Doyle waved him off.
"Nah, s'all right. I'm too damned tired to worry about it." True to his word, he shuffled in and sprawled out on the bed fully clothed. After a moment, one eye opened and looked at Angel, who was still standing by the open door. "You coming?"
Angel bit his tongue on what he nearly said. He really was tired if he was about to make dirty jokes, but they had been hijacked off here for a reason. Until he figured out what was going on, sleeping wouldn't be an option. "Look, why don't you just stay here? Sunnydale is a late night town and I should-"
"No, no, no, you don't!" Doyle sat up and looked at him with alarm. "You're not leaving me here while you go traipsing around town."
"We already took care of things tonight, you should be fine," Angel said sharply. He was not staying here when Buffy could be in danger. Anxiety was dancing a tango on his nerves and all he wanted to do was find out if she was all right. A vision about her in some kind of danger and he'd had to resist the urge to shake details from his unforthcoming seer. Cryptic visions from indifferent Powers; at least they'd been kind enough to send him a warning.
"You really think I only came because of the visions?" Doyle's quiet voice gave him pause, settled the itch to simply run to her. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Angel with soft eyes that could see clearly through the darkness.
Didn't you, but that wasn't fair and Angel was relieved he realized it before he said it and made true hurt shine in those eyes. It made him remember that Doyle had been his friend first, before all the strangeness and false desire, before he'd ever learned the taste of his skin. Angel bit the inside of his cheek to forestall that thought before it coiled off in the wrong direction. Suddenly it was a comfort that Doyle was here with him. He didn't have to do this alone.
"I know you didn't," he said aloud and Doyle smiled.
He bounced to his feet with more energy than Angel would have given him credit for. "So where're we off to, and please tell me they have food. My stomach's starting to think my mouth is on strike."
"I thought we'd stop and see Giles first." Angel set one of the bags on a small, worn table in the corner and opened it, rifling through the weapons until he found the stakes, always the weapon of choice for Sunnydale. He tossed one to Doyle who caught it and tucked it absently into his pocket. Someday he was going to convince Doyle it was wiser to have a stake on him at all times, even when they weren't expecting trouble. Trouble found them often enough as it was.
"The lady's Watcher? Good idea, we'll talk to him and he can warn her we're in town. Be less of a shock coming from him."
Angel was shaking his head before Doyle even finished. "No. I don't want Buffy to know I'm here."
Doyle gave him an incredulous look. "Are you kidding me? That has got to be the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
"Why?"
"Five reasons," Doyle ticked each one off on a finger, "One, you'd be lyin' to her. Two, you'd be making her friends lie to her. Three, someone'll slip up and she'll find out. And then we have a pissed slayer on our hands."
"That's four reasons."
"Five is me vacuuming you out of your nice car seats after she pops your cork. No way, you have to tell her."
"And if I do tell her, what then? She'd be distracted, she could get hurt."
This time Doyle's smile was unpleasant. "Good with excuses, aren't you. But it won't work on me, I get to see the picture with surround sound, remember? I understand, you know. I do. But you can't help her by hiding from her." Angel didn't say anything and he went on. "What happens if she gets hurt because you were too far away watching to help?" His voice softened, gentled. "You can't stand on the outside and watch the world if you want to be a part of it."
"Like you are?" It was cruel and he knew it, tasted the simple, petty meanness before the words even left his mouth. Doyle's lips pinched briefly white, the only sign he'd heard.
"She needs you."
"Then let's go.
~~*~~
"I do wish you could give me a little more detail," Giles said. Ever a good host, he was in the kitchen making sandwiches for his unexpected, and not entirely welcome, guests. In between paper grocery sacks and the litter of raw ingredients on his counter, he'd managed to find space to slice tomatoes and was layering them over bacon. "We have so little to work with right now that anything would be useful."
"Wish I had more to give you," Doyle said, helping himself to the plate as Giles set it on the coffee table. "Wouldn't be the first time we were wanting a few more specifics. They aren't much for sharpening the picture."
"We know there's already been a murder." Angel stood near the window, looking out through the sheer curtains. For the first time, he realized that he'd missed Sunnydale. This was the place he'd finally started living again, or trying to, and despite everything that had happened, it had been home. He missed the gang too, more than he had expected for all that he wasn't sure he could really call them friends.
He doubted the feeling was mutual. Giles hadn't been particularly happy to see them on his doorstep but then, he had perfectly good reasons for that. Not the least of them that he had agreed to call Buffy and let her know Angel was in town. She was on patrol right now, Giles had told them, and it was difficult to resist the urge to find her, watch her. Make sure she was safe. Giles had pointed out quite reasonably that as late as it was, by the time they found her she would probably be on her way home for the night and so they had stayed here instead to work on the details.
"You said this all started when they found an old mission?" Doyle asked thoughtfully, polishing off the sandwich before reaching for another. "Probably some sort of spirit then, yeah? Unless it's a demon that just gets off on the desecrated holy ground vibes."
"A demon wouldn't explain the stolen Chumash knife or the murder," Angel turned away from the window and paced in front of the sofa as he thought. "There's a Father Gabriel-"
"Giles," The front door burst open and they all froze as Buffy dashed in, her arms loaded with bags. She shoved one of them next to the others on the counter and the other had to make a home on the floor. "Doogie's was open late tonight and they were having a huge sale on all their pie fillings, so I picked up some extras. Do you think we have enough..." She trailed off as she looked up and saw them. All the animation seemed to deflate from her, her expression going slack with confusion and oh, hurt, limned with betrayal and it was Giles who was taking the brunt of it.
"Buffy," Angel stepped forward, "We just got here a little while ago. Doyle-this is Doyle," he gestured at the other man, who offered a feeble wave, "He had a vision that you were in danger."
"Yeah, it's this thing I do," Doyle muttered, his appetite finally seeming to curdle and he set the remaining half of his sandwich back on his plate.
"Good party trick," Buffy said distantly. She turned back to her groceries, slowly removing cans and stacking them neatly on the counter. "So you came to give me the heads up? I'm pretty sure AT&T has service in LA or hey, you could just call 1-800-COLLECT."
"I want to help," Angel said softly, helplessly.
"And you coming here is supposed to help?" She slammed one of the cans down too hard and a shiny dent appeared on the countertop. "I thought we agreed not to see each other for awhile."
"We did, I-"
"I need to learn how to live without you," she told him and he wondered distantly at how she'd changed in such a short time. Pain, he knew, was an excellent educator. "And I'm always in danger here. You knew that when you left."
She had always known how best to wound him, Slayer instincts always guiding her to the vulnerabilities where one could drive a stake. "Yes, I did," he agreed coolly, "It wasn't my choice to come back."
His own barb hit home, he saw it flicker in her eyes before she glanced at Doyle. He didn't bother to correct her assumption. It was in him to beg her forgiveness; he hated hurting her, hated seeing it even as some part of him inside deeply resented how easily she did it to him. He didn't allow it lenience; he needed to stay and she could be allowed her bitterness. Even if it had been for the best, he had been the one to leave.
"Be that as it may," Giles interrupted, "We were discussing our most recent problem. Angel, you mentioned a Father Gabriel?"
"His family has been here for generations," Angel said slowly, drawing his eyes from Buffy. "He might be able to give us some information."
"Fine, I'll go talk to him," Buffy said briskly, forestalling Angel's protest with, "Unless you've found some SPF 5000 sunscreen? It'll be dawn soon."
It galled that she was right and he glanced at Doyle's hands, at the half dozen band-aids on his fingers. "You'll call us if you find out anything?"
"Leave a number with Giles." Her expression softened, just a little and it was too easy to see through the phantom of her anger. Angel looked away from it, his own pain more than enough in this moment, and walked out, Doyle silently behind him.
~~*~~
The hotel room had not been improved by their absence. The only chair in the room was wooden, pocked with dents and cigarette burns and Angel sat in it as he watched Doyle check the curtains for any holes or gaps. All too quickly, he was satisfied and that left them with nothing but the rusty air conditioning and the first, peach colored light filling the room.
"You want me to leave you alone for awhile?" Doyle asked, his voice apologetic and awkward.
Last week he would have said yes. He would have sat here in the dark and brooded, as Cordelia called it, about things he couldn't change. He would have closed his eyes to better feel the ache of it, savored his grief alone. Last week, only a handful of days ago.
"Don't leave."
It was so easy to pull Doyle into his arms and hold him, bury his face into the warm curve of his neck and breathe in the scent of his life. It made his mouth fill with saliva, soft and heavy and he swallowed it away, wanting only to borrow Doyle's warmth, not consume it. He tried to convey it with touch and thought that he had failed. The other man was shaking, his muscles jerking lightly under Angel's fingers and Angel knew he should let him go. Doyle was clearly uncomfortable with this and hadn't he done all he should just by being here? It was true, and he knew it yet his fingers refused to loosen until Doyle finally pulled back and then they did it with reluctance, letting his warmth slip away.
Only to slide to the floor in front of him, his eyes shadowed and lowered.
"Don't…don't say anything, okay?"
He almost spoiled it immediately, started to ask him why and bit it back, nodding instead.
Doyle didn't meet his eyes as he reached for the fly of Angel's pants, and wordlessly, he helped slide them down, enough for Doyle to lean in between his legs. He steadied Angel's cock with a tentative hand and the bandages were cooler than his fingers, the odd feeling of them barely distracting against the touch of his lips. A soft, nearly shy kiss against the tip before the heat of his mouth wrapped around it.
A weak cry tried to escape and Angel bit his tongue, tasted his own used blood. Much too soft a touch, hardly any suction at all and Doyle couldn't seem to take much in, drooling around it and over his hand, blissful wetness that Angel could slide through and into, the slick darkness of Doyle's mouth.
He wanted to look down and see it, the slow rise and fall of the dark head between his legs, the way his cheeks would hollow and fill as he sucked but even the thought was almost too much. No expertise here, just the offer of simple pleasure and Angel could no more have pulled away then as driven a stake through his own heart.
Doyle's free hand found his own and Angel clutched it, felt tiny bones grinding in it and the muffled cry of pain echoed around him, faint and bright. It didn't stop, sucking clumsily, wonderfully, and he shouldn't come in Doyle's mouth, not so far from society's manners not to know it was considered rude, but when he slid his hand into dark hair he forgot what it was for, riding the rough side of Doyle's tongue and he felt Doyle choke on the sudden rush of it. Even that felt too good to bear and he could have wept when Doyle jerked away, his palm a feeble comparison to his mouth.
It felt like forever before he could blink his eyes open, still sprawled in the chair with his legs spread like something used. Doyle was kneeling in front of him, eyes closed, his breath coming in panicked blurts. His lips were reddened and swollen, shining with pearl and Angel wanted so badly to kiss them, bite them gently and make them redder.
"Do-"
Doyle cut him off quickly with a shake of his head. He licked his lips slowly and Angel bit his own, tasted again his own blood. "Don't say anything!" Doyle whimpered, trembling so hard his eyelashes quivered. "Just don't!"
Angel nodded and Doyle wrapped his arms around his waist, buried his face against Angel's belly and if he felt warm wetness against his skin, Angel didn't say anything.
~~*~~
end chapter
*No, I don't really know if they do an 80's flashback on KCAL, but after searching the net for a half hour trying to find out, I exercised my writerly powers and made it so. *G* Hey, if Angel can use the sewers to get to any place in LA....
Title: Strawberry Fields, 6/?
Author: Keelywolfe
Series: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Doyle
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Any latecomers can find all the other parts here
~~*~~
Doyle had refused to go home.
Angel's argument that he didn't need to come to Sunnydale had been very persistent and well thought out, covering all the major points with a flat, "You're not coming."
Unfortunately, Doyle's argument had been better. "Oh, right, and when they," he jerked a thumb upward, "Decide we haven't been tangoing enough, I'm the one they zap. Forget it."
It was the first time Angel had been argued down by another man wearing his clothes. They stopped at Doyle's apartment first because if his normal wardrobe was a little unusual, Angel's baggy sweats and a t-shirt were not an improvement. He'd insisted that Angel go up to the apartment with him, even into the bedroom while he quickly changed and threw a spare set of clothes into a bag, watching him suspiciously the entire time like he was afraid Angel would make a break for the door and leave him there.
Not that the idea didn't have some appeal but since Doyle knew how to drive, it was a moot point.
The ride had been in silence with Doyle curled in his seat, napping, and Angel listening to the Wednesday 80's flashback on KCAL. They pulled into a small, garishly neon motel outside of the city limits just after three and he left Doyle in the car while he paid for the room, keeping half an eye on his sleeping form through a large, dirty glass window. They weren't quite in Sunnydale but that didn't make it any safer to roam the streets at night.
He took the keycard from a bored-looking teenager with a rash of acne whose eyes barely left the small TV screen on the back of the counter long enough to ring him up. Doyle hadn't so much as moved when he returned and there was a growing patch of dampness on his left shoulder where he was drooling in his sleep. Angel nudged the dry side gently, trying not to startle him. It had no effect and he tried it again, harder, to no avail. How was this man still alive? He could sleep through his own murder.
"Doyle," he whispered, then louder, "Doyle!"
"Hmmzat?" Came a sleepy murmur. "Ang'?"
Sleepy green eyes peered up at him, blinking rapidly. There was a wet trail on his cheek that Doyle rubbed at clumsily with the back of his hand and the sight of him, rumpled and sleepy, made Angel smile. The poor guy actually looked cute.
"Hey, we're here and you're not spending the night in the car because I'd like you to be alive in the morning, so you can either get out or I can carry you to the room. Your call."
Doyle was out of the car with almost vampiric speed and he glared at Angel, who wasn't bothering to hide a smirk. "I can walk, thanks," he said with icy dignity, and proceeded to do so for about ten feet, until he stopped and walked back. "Mind telling me the room number?"
Silently, Angel handed him the key card and retrieved their luggage before following him up to the second floor mezzanine. It took Doyle two tries to open the door, muttering under his breath the entire time and when he finally got it open, he stopped just inside the door so abruptly that Angel walked right into him, nearly sending them both to the floor.
"What?" he frowned, pushing Doyle behind him automatically as he peered into the dark room. Just what they needed, this place was probably a distant cousin to the Bates motel. Inside it looked worse, neon giving way to avocado carpeting and lamps with velvety yellow shades stationed on either side of the bed. He wouldn't be surprised to find a painting of Elvis's last supper in the bathroom. Ugly, yes, but he didn't see anything amiss. "What's wrong?"
He heard Doyle swallow hard, "Well, it's just got the one, you know?"
One wha-one king-sized bed. He hadn't even thought about it when he paid for the room, "I'm sorry, I'll go back and-" Doyle waved him off.
"Nah, s'all right. I'm too damned tired to worry about it." True to his word, he shuffled in and sprawled out on the bed fully clothed. After a moment, one eye opened and looked at Angel, who was still standing by the open door. "You coming?"
Angel bit his tongue on what he nearly said. He really was tired if he was about to make dirty jokes, but they had been hijacked off here for a reason. Until he figured out what was going on, sleeping wouldn't be an option. "Look, why don't you just stay here? Sunnydale is a late night town and I should-"
"No, no, no, you don't!" Doyle sat up and looked at him with alarm. "You're not leaving me here while you go traipsing around town."
"We already took care of things tonight, you should be fine," Angel said sharply. He was not staying here when Buffy could be in danger. Anxiety was dancing a tango on his nerves and all he wanted to do was find out if she was all right. A vision about her in some kind of danger and he'd had to resist the urge to shake details from his unforthcoming seer. Cryptic visions from indifferent Powers; at least they'd been kind enough to send him a warning.
"You really think I only came because of the visions?" Doyle's quiet voice gave him pause, settled the itch to simply run to her. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Angel with soft eyes that could see clearly through the darkness.
Didn't you, but that wasn't fair and Angel was relieved he realized it before he said it and made true hurt shine in those eyes. It made him remember that Doyle had been his friend first, before all the strangeness and false desire, before he'd ever learned the taste of his skin. Angel bit the inside of his cheek to forestall that thought before it coiled off in the wrong direction. Suddenly it was a comfort that Doyle was here with him. He didn't have to do this alone.
"I know you didn't," he said aloud and Doyle smiled.
He bounced to his feet with more energy than Angel would have given him credit for. "So where're we off to, and please tell me they have food. My stomach's starting to think my mouth is on strike."
"I thought we'd stop and see Giles first." Angel set one of the bags on a small, worn table in the corner and opened it, rifling through the weapons until he found the stakes, always the weapon of choice for Sunnydale. He tossed one to Doyle who caught it and tucked it absently into his pocket. Someday he was going to convince Doyle it was wiser to have a stake on him at all times, even when they weren't expecting trouble. Trouble found them often enough as it was.
"The lady's Watcher? Good idea, we'll talk to him and he can warn her we're in town. Be less of a shock coming from him."
Angel was shaking his head before Doyle even finished. "No. I don't want Buffy to know I'm here."
Doyle gave him an incredulous look. "Are you kidding me? That has got to be the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
"Why?"
"Five reasons," Doyle ticked each one off on a finger, "One, you'd be lyin' to her. Two, you'd be making her friends lie to her. Three, someone'll slip up and she'll find out. And then we have a pissed slayer on our hands."
"That's four reasons."
"Five is me vacuuming you out of your nice car seats after she pops your cork. No way, you have to tell her."
"And if I do tell her, what then? She'd be distracted, she could get hurt."
This time Doyle's smile was unpleasant. "Good with excuses, aren't you. But it won't work on me, I get to see the picture with surround sound, remember? I understand, you know. I do. But you can't help her by hiding from her." Angel didn't say anything and he went on. "What happens if she gets hurt because you were too far away watching to help?" His voice softened, gentled. "You can't stand on the outside and watch the world if you want to be a part of it."
"Like you are?" It was cruel and he knew it, tasted the simple, petty meanness before the words even left his mouth. Doyle's lips pinched briefly white, the only sign he'd heard.
"She needs you."
"Then let's go.
~~*~~
"I do wish you could give me a little more detail," Giles said. Ever a good host, he was in the kitchen making sandwiches for his unexpected, and not entirely welcome, guests. In between paper grocery sacks and the litter of raw ingredients on his counter, he'd managed to find space to slice tomatoes and was layering them over bacon. "We have so little to work with right now that anything would be useful."
"Wish I had more to give you," Doyle said, helping himself to the plate as Giles set it on the coffee table. "Wouldn't be the first time we were wanting a few more specifics. They aren't much for sharpening the picture."
"We know there's already been a murder." Angel stood near the window, looking out through the sheer curtains. For the first time, he realized that he'd missed Sunnydale. This was the place he'd finally started living again, or trying to, and despite everything that had happened, it had been home. He missed the gang too, more than he had expected for all that he wasn't sure he could really call them friends.
He doubted the feeling was mutual. Giles hadn't been particularly happy to see them on his doorstep but then, he had perfectly good reasons for that. Not the least of them that he had agreed to call Buffy and let her know Angel was in town. She was on patrol right now, Giles had told them, and it was difficult to resist the urge to find her, watch her. Make sure she was safe. Giles had pointed out quite reasonably that as late as it was, by the time they found her she would probably be on her way home for the night and so they had stayed here instead to work on the details.
"You said this all started when they found an old mission?" Doyle asked thoughtfully, polishing off the sandwich before reaching for another. "Probably some sort of spirit then, yeah? Unless it's a demon that just gets off on the desecrated holy ground vibes."
"A demon wouldn't explain the stolen Chumash knife or the murder," Angel turned away from the window and paced in front of the sofa as he thought. "There's a Father Gabriel-"
"Giles," The front door burst open and they all froze as Buffy dashed in, her arms loaded with bags. She shoved one of them next to the others on the counter and the other had to make a home on the floor. "Doogie's was open late tonight and they were having a huge sale on all their pie fillings, so I picked up some extras. Do you think we have enough..." She trailed off as she looked up and saw them. All the animation seemed to deflate from her, her expression going slack with confusion and oh, hurt, limned with betrayal and it was Giles who was taking the brunt of it.
"Buffy," Angel stepped forward, "We just got here a little while ago. Doyle-this is Doyle," he gestured at the other man, who offered a feeble wave, "He had a vision that you were in danger."
"Yeah, it's this thing I do," Doyle muttered, his appetite finally seeming to curdle and he set the remaining half of his sandwich back on his plate.
"Good party trick," Buffy said distantly. She turned back to her groceries, slowly removing cans and stacking them neatly on the counter. "So you came to give me the heads up? I'm pretty sure AT&T has service in LA or hey, you could just call 1-800-COLLECT."
"I want to help," Angel said softly, helplessly.
"And you coming here is supposed to help?" She slammed one of the cans down too hard and a shiny dent appeared on the countertop. "I thought we agreed not to see each other for awhile."
"We did, I-"
"I need to learn how to live without you," she told him and he wondered distantly at how she'd changed in such a short time. Pain, he knew, was an excellent educator. "And I'm always in danger here. You knew that when you left."
She had always known how best to wound him, Slayer instincts always guiding her to the vulnerabilities where one could drive a stake. "Yes, I did," he agreed coolly, "It wasn't my choice to come back."
His own barb hit home, he saw it flicker in her eyes before she glanced at Doyle. He didn't bother to correct her assumption. It was in him to beg her forgiveness; he hated hurting her, hated seeing it even as some part of him inside deeply resented how easily she did it to him. He didn't allow it lenience; he needed to stay and she could be allowed her bitterness. Even if it had been for the best, he had been the one to leave.
"Be that as it may," Giles interrupted, "We were discussing our most recent problem. Angel, you mentioned a Father Gabriel?"
"His family has been here for generations," Angel said slowly, drawing his eyes from Buffy. "He might be able to give us some information."
"Fine, I'll go talk to him," Buffy said briskly, forestalling Angel's protest with, "Unless you've found some SPF 5000 sunscreen? It'll be dawn soon."
It galled that she was right and he glanced at Doyle's hands, at the half dozen band-aids on his fingers. "You'll call us if you find out anything?"
"Leave a number with Giles." Her expression softened, just a little and it was too easy to see through the phantom of her anger. Angel looked away from it, his own pain more than enough in this moment, and walked out, Doyle silently behind him.
~~*~~
The hotel room had not been improved by their absence. The only chair in the room was wooden, pocked with dents and cigarette burns and Angel sat in it as he watched Doyle check the curtains for any holes or gaps. All too quickly, he was satisfied and that left them with nothing but the rusty air conditioning and the first, peach colored light filling the room.
"You want me to leave you alone for awhile?" Doyle asked, his voice apologetic and awkward.
Last week he would have said yes. He would have sat here in the dark and brooded, as Cordelia called it, about things he couldn't change. He would have closed his eyes to better feel the ache of it, savored his grief alone. Last week, only a handful of days ago.
"Don't leave."
It was so easy to pull Doyle into his arms and hold him, bury his face into the warm curve of his neck and breathe in the scent of his life. It made his mouth fill with saliva, soft and heavy and he swallowed it away, wanting only to borrow Doyle's warmth, not consume it. He tried to convey it with touch and thought that he had failed. The other man was shaking, his muscles jerking lightly under Angel's fingers and Angel knew he should let him go. Doyle was clearly uncomfortable with this and hadn't he done all he should just by being here? It was true, and he knew it yet his fingers refused to loosen until Doyle finally pulled back and then they did it with reluctance, letting his warmth slip away.
Only to slide to the floor in front of him, his eyes shadowed and lowered.
"Don't…don't say anything, okay?"
He almost spoiled it immediately, started to ask him why and bit it back, nodding instead.
Doyle didn't meet his eyes as he reached for the fly of Angel's pants, and wordlessly, he helped slide them down, enough for Doyle to lean in between his legs. He steadied Angel's cock with a tentative hand and the bandages were cooler than his fingers, the odd feeling of them barely distracting against the touch of his lips. A soft, nearly shy kiss against the tip before the heat of his mouth wrapped around it.
A weak cry tried to escape and Angel bit his tongue, tasted his own used blood. Much too soft a touch, hardly any suction at all and Doyle couldn't seem to take much in, drooling around it and over his hand, blissful wetness that Angel could slide through and into, the slick darkness of Doyle's mouth.
He wanted to look down and see it, the slow rise and fall of the dark head between his legs, the way his cheeks would hollow and fill as he sucked but even the thought was almost too much. No expertise here, just the offer of simple pleasure and Angel could no more have pulled away then as driven a stake through his own heart.
Doyle's free hand found his own and Angel clutched it, felt tiny bones grinding in it and the muffled cry of pain echoed around him, faint and bright. It didn't stop, sucking clumsily, wonderfully, and he shouldn't come in Doyle's mouth, not so far from society's manners not to know it was considered rude, but when he slid his hand into dark hair he forgot what it was for, riding the rough side of Doyle's tongue and he felt Doyle choke on the sudden rush of it. Even that felt too good to bear and he could have wept when Doyle jerked away, his palm a feeble comparison to his mouth.
It felt like forever before he could blink his eyes open, still sprawled in the chair with his legs spread like something used. Doyle was kneeling in front of him, eyes closed, his breath coming in panicked blurts. His lips were reddened and swollen, shining with pearl and Angel wanted so badly to kiss them, bite them gently and make them redder.
"Do-"
Doyle cut him off quickly with a shake of his head. He licked his lips slowly and Angel bit his own, tasted again his own blood. "Don't say anything!" Doyle whimpered, trembling so hard his eyelashes quivered. "Just don't!"
Angel nodded and Doyle wrapped his arms around his waist, buried his face against Angel's belly and if he felt warm wetness against his skin, Angel didn't say anything.
~~*~~
end chapter
*No, I don't really know if they do an 80's flashback on KCAL, but after searching the net for a half hour trying to find out, I exercised my writerly powers and made it so. *G* Hey, if Angel can use the sewers to get to any place in LA....