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keelywolfeTitle: Strawberry Fields, 8/?
Author: Keelywolfe
Series: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Doyle
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Any latecomers can find all the other parts here.
Hours later he was sitting uncomfortably in one of Giles's armchairs, still wondering. It was really no surprise that this little get together was particularly unpleasant, and not just because Anya was reading a list of symptoms for syphilis to Xander.
"You're gonna get vesicles and pustules. They have pictures." She attempted to show them to Xander, who seemed less than happy about it. Angel had to agree it wasn't on his preferred reading list either.
"Oh, god," Xander groaned.
"On the plus side, the syphilis will drive you insane first, so you probably won't mind," Angel said blandly, studying his nails to avoid several glares that were sent his way. It wasn't that he was enjoying Xander's illness – except for the part where he was – and he really didn't want him to die. But hours of listening to the others debate about their situation while doing absolutely nothing about it was getting on his nerves.
Had he really missed this?
The arguing was getting louder and more rambled as the entire group joined in with their own opinions, even as Buffy silently stirred her pie filling with ever greater force. At the rate she was beating it, it wasn't going to need baking.
"I don't think anyone appreciates the truth of the situation!" Willow said, slamming down her book, 'Indigenous People of North America.'
"If they don't, then they aren't the only ones," Angel said, quietly. It was his first real contribution to the matter at hand and the others fell into surprised silence. He realized they were waiting expectantly for him to explain and he sighed.
"Here's the truth I'm seeing. I was sent here by a vision from otherworldly beings because Buffy is in danger. Your best friend is seriously ill and innocent people are dying." He tried to be gentle, but the pained look in Willow's eyes was equal parts distressing and frustrating, and it was the frustration that was needling him. A weeks worth of poor sleep was creeping up on him, and Doyle was off searching around town for any clues that could be found. That was itching at him too, knowing that Doyle didn't know Sunnydale well and there were a thousand and one troubles he could get into, even during the day. But the harsh afternoon sun that was creeping around the edge of the curtains was keeping him here and useless. That was frustrating him most of all.
"But if we could just talk to him…" Willow began, trailing off at Angel's sudden, harsh laugh.
"And say what?" Angel felt older than anyone had a right to be. "Tell you what, when you figure out the perfect apology speech for someone who's had their entire family slaughtered, write it down for me, all right? I could probably use it."
He regretted it the moment he said it, the sorrow and distance he saw in her eyes. He'd always liked Willow and his current predicament was hardly her fault. The others looked away as well, and those that were standing shuffled an unconscious step away from him. All of them, even Buffy, all but Xander who looked at him with fever-bright eyes and the underlying hatred that had always been there.
Discomfort wasn't even the word for it, and he couldn't sit here anymore but he couldn't leave.
Instead, he stood up and walked down the hall towards the bathroom. Not that anyone would think he needed it but it was either there or the bedroom and he couldn't stop thinking about the one other time he'd been in Giles's bedroom, not when he'd just seen the results of it so clearly in Xander's gaze.
Everything had been arranged to perfect detail; he was an artist in his heart, with a paper or pen, or in that case, the delicate lines of a corpse. Blood-red petals leading a path to the bedroom, the candles, the music, not a single element forgotten and he had sipped Giles's pain at finding Jenny dead like he might have drank a fine red wine. He remembered all of it, arranged as exquisitely in his memories as she had been on that bed.
People tended to see Angelus as another person; he was the vampire, not Angel. He thought Buffy saw him that way, once he'd returned from Hell. Two different people who happened to share the same body, but it wasn't true. Giles might know the truth and he thought Xander did as well. The kid was dumb as driftwood but he had some common sense to him.
He remembered everything he'd done during those soulless months and worse, he remembered enjoying it. He remembered chasing her down those hallways in the school, following the scent of her terror and he'd been hard when he found her, when he'd broken her neck and watched her die. He hadn't just enjoyed it, he'd loved it, as nearly as a soulless creature could love. And all his guilt didn't make that go away, it only made the memory that much worse, his remorse and shame a cup that would never be filled.
"Is something wrong?" Angel stifled a gasp and whirled around. If he'd had a heartbeat, it would have been pounding out of his chest. Giles was standing behind him, looking uncomfortable and concerned and for a terrified moment he was sure Giles had read everything he'd been thinking, and he wished for those words of apology that could heal everything he'd done. It was a deeper pain still to know those words couldn't exist.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Giles said apologetically. "I just—you're…are you all right?" Angel couldn't quite think of a way to answer that and Giles added embarrassment to his expression. "I suppose that's a foolish question, considering the circumstances." He took a step closer and his willingness to stand so near made something inside Angel ease, just a little. "Are you worried about your friend?"
"Doyle?" Well, now he was. "No, I'm sure he's fine."
Giles looked thoughtful. "He has visions, you said. How did you ever come to find him?"
"Actually, he found me." Angel smiled a little, remembering. Finding a half-demon in his apartment after a long day at work had made for some unexpected changes, that was for sure. "The Powers That Be sent him."
"The Powers That Be," Giles mused aloud, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "The Powers that Be what, I wonder?"
"I don't know," Angel said honestly. "I just know they want me to help people."
"And you trust them?" Strange that after all this time he still had to remind himself that he was older than Giles. Sometimes he felt as young as Buffy when they talked.
"I don't know," Angel repeated, slowly. "I trust Doyle."
A banging on the door interrupted them.
Doyle.
The hard desperation in the knocking had him nearly pushing Giles aside, trying to get to the door to see what was on the other side, standing in the dangerous sunlight. It was already opened, Buffy leaning against the jamb but nothing could have prepared him for who he saw on the other side.
Beneath a stinking, tattered blanket, smoke rising from his skin and through the thick folds, was Spike, begging to be let inside.
"C'mon, I can't hurt anyone!" he pleaded, "I can't bite anyone."
"As I recall, you're perfectly capable of hiring other people to do it for you," Angel said coolly, stepping up next to Buffy, just out of the light. "Hello, Spike."
The rising smoke was thickening. In a few more minutes it wouldn't matter if they let him inside. Spike was pressing against the invisible barrier as though it might break under his weight alone. "That was quite the sadistic bastard you got the last time. I remember five hot pokers. The one here," he poked a finger into Spike's gut and pulled it back before it felt more than marginally warm. "Took longer to heal than the other ones, you know."
He felt Buffy flinch and glanced at her, saw from the look in her eyes that she hadn't known what had happened to him. For a moment, all he could look at was her, Los Angeles seemed so very far away and Spike's wheedling was dim and pathetic. Standing outside, looking in, at a kind of life that wasn't his.
So pathetic.
"Let him in," he said quietly and walked away. He sat back down in his chair and looked at his hands while Giles invited Spike inside, and didn't watch while he waited to be useful.
It took less than twenty minutes for him to remember he hated Spike. He might have remembered sooner if it hadn't been for the fact that brooding tended to block out most of the annoying things of the world. It was an amazingly effective tool for not hearing the whining of a vampire while he was tied to a chair or the various murmuring conversations as they tried to decide what to do with their avenging Indian spirit. Native American spirit, he correctly mentally, mustn't be politically incorrect.
Sitting there not listening was easy enough, and brooding about Buffy was almost as familiar as not breathing. It wasn't until Doyle came back that all Hell decided to not only break loose, but to hang around and rifle the change out of the sofa cushions.
Doyle hadn't even knocked when he came in breathlessly, kicking the door shut behind him. "Angel, I think we've got some problems--" He stopped short and stared at Spike, who was neatly tied to a chair in the middle of the room. "Is this some kind of Sunnydale holiday tradition? After you eat the bird, you sacrifice a vampire and have pie?"
"We'll explain later," Angel told him when no one else spoke up. "What did you find? What problems?" That sounded particularly ominous.
"Didn't find much at first, other than no one else has a clue. Have the police here even heard about that yellow tape? You can just wander into any old crime scene and have yourself a look around. I did find out one thing—"
Spike's laughter interrupted them and they all turned to look at him. "Oh, this is rich. Since when did you start batting for the other team," Spike was still laughing, wheezing with it. It emphasized the shadows under his eyes, the hollowness of his cheeks.
"What are you talking about," Angel asked distractedly, barely glancing at him. The problems were all he wanted to hear about. Maybe Doyle had the right idea about starting a new holiday tradition.
Spike nodded towards Doyle. "Your boyfriend over there. Didn't think you got the urge to play those games."
He had everyone's attention now and preened with it as well as a half-starved vampire tied to a chair could.
"What did you say?" Angel said, softly.
"Come on, he smells like you've been rolling around in the backseat of your car with him. Don't know why I didn't notice it before."
"Not funny." Even if it was true enough.
"Who's joking, peaches? Funny, I didn't think you swung that way…cept that one—"
Angel's hand on his jaw silenced him; he was across the room and gripping it in one hand as fast as a human could blink. "You'll have a harder time spilling your secrets about those soldiers with a broken jaw," he warned softly. It worked; Spike lapsed into sullen silence but the damage was well and truly done.
He should have denied it from the first, he realized, far too late for any indignant blustering to be believable and he watched helplessly as Buffy fled. Her carelessly thrown bowl of pie filling wobbled on the edge of the counter, defying gravity for only a moment before it clattered to the floor and sprayed its deep brown contents over the floor and onto ankles. He nearly went after her, hesitating under the accusing glares of her friends, and Giles's was the worst coming after his hesitant comfort in the hallway. Helplessly, he looked at Doyle. His face was calm and easy. Wondered if anyone else could see the guilt in his green eyes like Angel could.
Willow spoke first, her voice hurt and angry, "Are you really—"
"Oh, for God's sake!" Doyle exploded, managing to look equal parts horrified and bewildered. "Is this entire greenstick town crazy?"
"Don't ask me, I have syphilis," Xander mumbled.
"Look, all I wanted to say was that all the weapons at the Cultural Center have gone missing, all right? Thought that might be more important than sermons on the mound from the party favor. Christ, I need a drink," he muttered and stormed outside.
"The whole town's not crazy, it's just a little evil." Willow muttered. "Like Los Angeles is some sort of Starbucks of Righteousness." Still, she seemed somewhat mollified by Doyle's outburst and the others seemed to take their cue from her, settling back into their respective dinner preparation/spirit destroying tasks.
So there were choices. Go after Buffy and risk her wrath, and also the wrath of all the others when he fumbled his explanation. Go after Doyle and risk making suspicions worse, especially if Spike decided to open his mouth again, or stay here. And sit. And watch everyone looking at him out of the corners of their eyes while they tried to decide if Spike was telling the truth.
Angel rolled his eyes heavenward and went after Doyle.
The sun hadn't quite set but Doyle hadn't gone far. He was sitting on a worn wooden bench in the shadows, a cigarette in one hand. He took a long drag off it when Angel sat next to him and exhaled a pale cloud of smoke.
"Didn't think you smoked."
"I don't," Doyle coughed, waving it carelessly so that Angel had to lean away from the glowing tip. "Haven't for a coupla years now. Who can afford to smoke these days?"
They sat in silence, Doyle smoking and coughing in almost equal parts. He offered the pack to Angel, and after a moments consideration, he took one. The second from a new pack. Too tired to engage in any more moral wrestling, Angel closed his eyes and smoked, and concentrated on nothing more complex than remembering how to inhale.
"You were right," Doyle said abruptly, crushing out the cigarette butt on the bricks. "I shouldn't have come. Should've stayed at the hotel."
"It wasn't your fault."
"No, it wasn't." Doyle agreed, his voice blurred around another cigarette between his lips. He lit it and inhaled deeply, the end glowing cherry-red. "But it still wouldn't have happened."
Angel opened his eyes lazily. Doyle was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and Angel could see the pale strip of skin between his hairline and the collar of his jacket. He was struck with the urge to lean forward and kiss that soft skin and put the cigarette between his lips instead.
"Been thinking about those weapons," Doyle said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger as though his head ached. "I think our unfriendly ghost is gathering some pals to help him with the job."
"A raiding party."
"The people he's gone after. It's been mostly the people in charge, you know? I think whoever he goes after next must be right popular if he needs all that backup."
"He's a warrior, to a warrior the leader means the strongest person," Angel said slowly, a realization coming to him.
Doyle's eyes widened with the same idea. "That would mean they're coming here!"
"Buffy."
They fumbled out the cigarettes, both of them heading for the door. Night had fallen completely by then and there were no shadows to skirt through, Angel striding purposefully with Doyle on his heels. Doyle stumbled suddenly, crying out and Angel caught him without thinking, saw the cluster of feathers without realizing at first what they meant, the sudden scent of blood flaring like a crimson skeleton of lightning.
Pain seared along his cheek, the differing scent of his own blood in the air. The arrow that had nicked him stuck hard in the door and it jerked Angel from his trance. Holding Doyle with one arm, he jerked the door open and dragged them both inside. There were already other arrows bristling along the walls and table, two had found their way into Spike although they hadn't been lucky enough for him to be hit in the heart.
The others were in the only safe place, behind the table and Angel managed to get them both over to it, setting Doyle down as carefully as he could. It couldn't be too bad, his breathing was fairly regular, it couldn't, please…
The arrow was in his upper thigh, his pant leg already soaked with blood. His belt hissed hot with friction as Angel yanked it through his belt loops. He wrapped it around Doyle's leg as gently as he could, threading it back through the buckle and pulling it tight above the wound. It would bleed too much if he pulled the arrow free now so he left it.
"Think we drew our conclusions a little late," Doyle's face was white with what must have been pain, his mouth tight and pale. He held the makeshift tourniquet with cold hands while Angel crouched low and looked over the edge of the table at their attackers. It was impossible to tell how many there were, the arrows still flying thickly around them. He hoped Doyle wasn't right.
~~*~~
End Chapter
Author: Keelywolfe
Series: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Doyle
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Any latecomers can find all the other parts here.
~~*~~
Hours later he was sitting uncomfortably in one of Giles's armchairs, still wondering. It was really no surprise that this little get together was particularly unpleasant, and not just because Anya was reading a list of symptoms for syphilis to Xander.
"You're gonna get vesicles and pustules. They have pictures." She attempted to show them to Xander, who seemed less than happy about it. Angel had to agree it wasn't on his preferred reading list either.
"Oh, god," Xander groaned.
"On the plus side, the syphilis will drive you insane first, so you probably won't mind," Angel said blandly, studying his nails to avoid several glares that were sent his way. It wasn't that he was enjoying Xander's illness – except for the part where he was – and he really didn't want him to die. But hours of listening to the others debate about their situation while doing absolutely nothing about it was getting on his nerves.
Had he really missed this?
The arguing was getting louder and more rambled as the entire group joined in with their own opinions, even as Buffy silently stirred her pie filling with ever greater force. At the rate she was beating it, it wasn't going to need baking.
"I don't think anyone appreciates the truth of the situation!" Willow said, slamming down her book, 'Indigenous People of North America.'
"If they don't, then they aren't the only ones," Angel said, quietly. It was his first real contribution to the matter at hand and the others fell into surprised silence. He realized they were waiting expectantly for him to explain and he sighed.
"Here's the truth I'm seeing. I was sent here by a vision from otherworldly beings because Buffy is in danger. Your best friend is seriously ill and innocent people are dying." He tried to be gentle, but the pained look in Willow's eyes was equal parts distressing and frustrating, and it was the frustration that was needling him. A weeks worth of poor sleep was creeping up on him, and Doyle was off searching around town for any clues that could be found. That was itching at him too, knowing that Doyle didn't know Sunnydale well and there were a thousand and one troubles he could get into, even during the day. But the harsh afternoon sun that was creeping around the edge of the curtains was keeping him here and useless. That was frustrating him most of all.
"But if we could just talk to him…" Willow began, trailing off at Angel's sudden, harsh laugh.
"And say what?" Angel felt older than anyone had a right to be. "Tell you what, when you figure out the perfect apology speech for someone who's had their entire family slaughtered, write it down for me, all right? I could probably use it."
He regretted it the moment he said it, the sorrow and distance he saw in her eyes. He'd always liked Willow and his current predicament was hardly her fault. The others looked away as well, and those that were standing shuffled an unconscious step away from him. All of them, even Buffy, all but Xander who looked at him with fever-bright eyes and the underlying hatred that had always been there.
Discomfort wasn't even the word for it, and he couldn't sit here anymore but he couldn't leave.
Instead, he stood up and walked down the hall towards the bathroom. Not that anyone would think he needed it but it was either there or the bedroom and he couldn't stop thinking about the one other time he'd been in Giles's bedroom, not when he'd just seen the results of it so clearly in Xander's gaze.
Everything had been arranged to perfect detail; he was an artist in his heart, with a paper or pen, or in that case, the delicate lines of a corpse. Blood-red petals leading a path to the bedroom, the candles, the music, not a single element forgotten and he had sipped Giles's pain at finding Jenny dead like he might have drank a fine red wine. He remembered all of it, arranged as exquisitely in his memories as she had been on that bed.
People tended to see Angelus as another person; he was the vampire, not Angel. He thought Buffy saw him that way, once he'd returned from Hell. Two different people who happened to share the same body, but it wasn't true. Giles might know the truth and he thought Xander did as well. The kid was dumb as driftwood but he had some common sense to him.
He remembered everything he'd done during those soulless months and worse, he remembered enjoying it. He remembered chasing her down those hallways in the school, following the scent of her terror and he'd been hard when he found her, when he'd broken her neck and watched her die. He hadn't just enjoyed it, he'd loved it, as nearly as a soulless creature could love. And all his guilt didn't make that go away, it only made the memory that much worse, his remorse and shame a cup that would never be filled.
"Is something wrong?" Angel stifled a gasp and whirled around. If he'd had a heartbeat, it would have been pounding out of his chest. Giles was standing behind him, looking uncomfortable and concerned and for a terrified moment he was sure Giles had read everything he'd been thinking, and he wished for those words of apology that could heal everything he'd done. It was a deeper pain still to know those words couldn't exist.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Giles said apologetically. "I just—you're…are you all right?" Angel couldn't quite think of a way to answer that and Giles added embarrassment to his expression. "I suppose that's a foolish question, considering the circumstances." He took a step closer and his willingness to stand so near made something inside Angel ease, just a little. "Are you worried about your friend?"
"Doyle?" Well, now he was. "No, I'm sure he's fine."
Giles looked thoughtful. "He has visions, you said. How did you ever come to find him?"
"Actually, he found me." Angel smiled a little, remembering. Finding a half-demon in his apartment after a long day at work had made for some unexpected changes, that was for sure. "The Powers That Be sent him."
"The Powers That Be," Giles mused aloud, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "The Powers that Be what, I wonder?"
"I don't know," Angel said honestly. "I just know they want me to help people."
"And you trust them?" Strange that after all this time he still had to remind himself that he was older than Giles. Sometimes he felt as young as Buffy when they talked.
"I don't know," Angel repeated, slowly. "I trust Doyle."
A banging on the door interrupted them.
Doyle.
The hard desperation in the knocking had him nearly pushing Giles aside, trying to get to the door to see what was on the other side, standing in the dangerous sunlight. It was already opened, Buffy leaning against the jamb but nothing could have prepared him for who he saw on the other side.
Beneath a stinking, tattered blanket, smoke rising from his skin and through the thick folds, was Spike, begging to be let inside.
"C'mon, I can't hurt anyone!" he pleaded, "I can't bite anyone."
"As I recall, you're perfectly capable of hiring other people to do it for you," Angel said coolly, stepping up next to Buffy, just out of the light. "Hello, Spike."
The rising smoke was thickening. In a few more minutes it wouldn't matter if they let him inside. Spike was pressing against the invisible barrier as though it might break under his weight alone. "That was quite the sadistic bastard you got the last time. I remember five hot pokers. The one here," he poked a finger into Spike's gut and pulled it back before it felt more than marginally warm. "Took longer to heal than the other ones, you know."
He felt Buffy flinch and glanced at her, saw from the look in her eyes that she hadn't known what had happened to him. For a moment, all he could look at was her, Los Angeles seemed so very far away and Spike's wheedling was dim and pathetic. Standing outside, looking in, at a kind of life that wasn't his.
So pathetic.
"Let him in," he said quietly and walked away. He sat back down in his chair and looked at his hands while Giles invited Spike inside, and didn't watch while he waited to be useful.
~~*~~
It took less than twenty minutes for him to remember he hated Spike. He might have remembered sooner if it hadn't been for the fact that brooding tended to block out most of the annoying things of the world. It was an amazingly effective tool for not hearing the whining of a vampire while he was tied to a chair or the various murmuring conversations as they tried to decide what to do with their avenging Indian spirit. Native American spirit, he correctly mentally, mustn't be politically incorrect.
Sitting there not listening was easy enough, and brooding about Buffy was almost as familiar as not breathing. It wasn't until Doyle came back that all Hell decided to not only break loose, but to hang around and rifle the change out of the sofa cushions.
Doyle hadn't even knocked when he came in breathlessly, kicking the door shut behind him. "Angel, I think we've got some problems--" He stopped short and stared at Spike, who was neatly tied to a chair in the middle of the room. "Is this some kind of Sunnydale holiday tradition? After you eat the bird, you sacrifice a vampire and have pie?"
"We'll explain later," Angel told him when no one else spoke up. "What did you find? What problems?" That sounded particularly ominous.
"Didn't find much at first, other than no one else has a clue. Have the police here even heard about that yellow tape? You can just wander into any old crime scene and have yourself a look around. I did find out one thing—"
Spike's laughter interrupted them and they all turned to look at him. "Oh, this is rich. Since when did you start batting for the other team," Spike was still laughing, wheezing with it. It emphasized the shadows under his eyes, the hollowness of his cheeks.
"What are you talking about," Angel asked distractedly, barely glancing at him. The problems were all he wanted to hear about. Maybe Doyle had the right idea about starting a new holiday tradition.
Spike nodded towards Doyle. "Your boyfriend over there. Didn't think you got the urge to play those games."
He had everyone's attention now and preened with it as well as a half-starved vampire tied to a chair could.
"What did you say?" Angel said, softly.
"Come on, he smells like you've been rolling around in the backseat of your car with him. Don't know why I didn't notice it before."
"Not funny." Even if it was true enough.
"Who's joking, peaches? Funny, I didn't think you swung that way…cept that one—"
Angel's hand on his jaw silenced him; he was across the room and gripping it in one hand as fast as a human could blink. "You'll have a harder time spilling your secrets about those soldiers with a broken jaw," he warned softly. It worked; Spike lapsed into sullen silence but the damage was well and truly done.
He should have denied it from the first, he realized, far too late for any indignant blustering to be believable and he watched helplessly as Buffy fled. Her carelessly thrown bowl of pie filling wobbled on the edge of the counter, defying gravity for only a moment before it clattered to the floor and sprayed its deep brown contents over the floor and onto ankles. He nearly went after her, hesitating under the accusing glares of her friends, and Giles's was the worst coming after his hesitant comfort in the hallway. Helplessly, he looked at Doyle. His face was calm and easy. Wondered if anyone else could see the guilt in his green eyes like Angel could.
Willow spoke first, her voice hurt and angry, "Are you really—"
"Oh, for God's sake!" Doyle exploded, managing to look equal parts horrified and bewildered. "Is this entire greenstick town crazy?"
"Don't ask me, I have syphilis," Xander mumbled.
"Look, all I wanted to say was that all the weapons at the Cultural Center have gone missing, all right? Thought that might be more important than sermons on the mound from the party favor. Christ, I need a drink," he muttered and stormed outside.
"The whole town's not crazy, it's just a little evil." Willow muttered. "Like Los Angeles is some sort of Starbucks of Righteousness." Still, she seemed somewhat mollified by Doyle's outburst and the others seemed to take their cue from her, settling back into their respective dinner preparation/spirit destroying tasks.
So there were choices. Go after Buffy and risk her wrath, and also the wrath of all the others when he fumbled his explanation. Go after Doyle and risk making suspicions worse, especially if Spike decided to open his mouth again, or stay here. And sit. And watch everyone looking at him out of the corners of their eyes while they tried to decide if Spike was telling the truth.
Angel rolled his eyes heavenward and went after Doyle.
The sun hadn't quite set but Doyle hadn't gone far. He was sitting on a worn wooden bench in the shadows, a cigarette in one hand. He took a long drag off it when Angel sat next to him and exhaled a pale cloud of smoke.
"Didn't think you smoked."
"I don't," Doyle coughed, waving it carelessly so that Angel had to lean away from the glowing tip. "Haven't for a coupla years now. Who can afford to smoke these days?"
They sat in silence, Doyle smoking and coughing in almost equal parts. He offered the pack to Angel, and after a moments consideration, he took one. The second from a new pack. Too tired to engage in any more moral wrestling, Angel closed his eyes and smoked, and concentrated on nothing more complex than remembering how to inhale.
"You were right," Doyle said abruptly, crushing out the cigarette butt on the bricks. "I shouldn't have come. Should've stayed at the hotel."
"It wasn't your fault."
"No, it wasn't." Doyle agreed, his voice blurred around another cigarette between his lips. He lit it and inhaled deeply, the end glowing cherry-red. "But it still wouldn't have happened."
Angel opened his eyes lazily. Doyle was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and Angel could see the pale strip of skin between his hairline and the collar of his jacket. He was struck with the urge to lean forward and kiss that soft skin and put the cigarette between his lips instead.
"Been thinking about those weapons," Doyle said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger as though his head ached. "I think our unfriendly ghost is gathering some pals to help him with the job."
"A raiding party."
"The people he's gone after. It's been mostly the people in charge, you know? I think whoever he goes after next must be right popular if he needs all that backup."
"He's a warrior, to a warrior the leader means the strongest person," Angel said slowly, a realization coming to him.
Doyle's eyes widened with the same idea. "That would mean they're coming here!"
"Buffy."
They fumbled out the cigarettes, both of them heading for the door. Night had fallen completely by then and there were no shadows to skirt through, Angel striding purposefully with Doyle on his heels. Doyle stumbled suddenly, crying out and Angel caught him without thinking, saw the cluster of feathers without realizing at first what they meant, the sudden scent of blood flaring like a crimson skeleton of lightning.
Pain seared along his cheek, the differing scent of his own blood in the air. The arrow that had nicked him stuck hard in the door and it jerked Angel from his trance. Holding Doyle with one arm, he jerked the door open and dragged them both inside. There were already other arrows bristling along the walls and table, two had found their way into Spike although they hadn't been lucky enough for him to be hit in the heart.
The others were in the only safe place, behind the table and Angel managed to get them both over to it, setting Doyle down as carefully as he could. It couldn't be too bad, his breathing was fairly regular, it couldn't, please…
The arrow was in his upper thigh, his pant leg already soaked with blood. His belt hissed hot with friction as Angel yanked it through his belt loops. He wrapped it around Doyle's leg as gently as he could, threading it back through the buckle and pulling it tight above the wound. It would bleed too much if he pulled the arrow free now so he left it.
"Think we drew our conclusions a little late," Doyle's face was white with what must have been pain, his mouth tight and pale. He held the makeshift tourniquet with cold hands while Angel crouched low and looked over the edge of the table at their attackers. It was impossible to tell how many there were, the arrows still flying thickly around them. He hoped Doyle wasn't right.
~~*~~
End Chapter
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Date: 2004-07-15 11:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-20 02:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-15 11:46 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2004-07-16 12:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-20 02:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-16 03:37 am (UTC)Anyways, excellent as always. You don't know how much i worship you for getting chapters out soo quickly. I try to avoid WIP...so thanks again.
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Date: 2004-07-20 02:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-16 03:45 am (UTC)"Tell you what, when you figure out the perfect apology speech for someone who's had their entire family slaughtered, write it down for me, all right? I could probably use it."
to the laugh-out-loud funny:
"Don't ask me, I have syphilis,".
Fanfic gold.
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Date: 2004-07-20 02:55 pm (UTC)Thank you so much!
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Date: 2004-07-16 06:22 am (UTC)Heh. You have the group voice going strong here.
and he wished for those words of apology that could heal everything he'd done. It was a deeper pain still to know those words couldn't exist.
Liked Angel's thoughts about how others perceive him as two separate entities even though he knows better. Love that Giles went after him.
"Is this some kind of Sunnydale holiday tradition? After you eat the bird, you sacrifice a vampire and have pie?"
Snort.
Got to love Spike for knowing he's saying exactly what he shouldn't.
Angel rolled his eyes heavenward and went after Doyle.
As it should be. ;)
Enjoyable, as always.
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Date: 2004-07-20 02:56 pm (UTC)Spike has an innate skill in saying either what shouldn't be said or exactly what should be said. One should admire his technique. *G*
Angel rolled his eyes heavenward and went after Doyle.
As it should be. ;)
Darn right!