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keelywolfeTitle: Strawberry Fields, 9/?
Author: Keelywolfe
Series: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Doyle
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Any latecomers can find all the other parts here.
It was quickly becoming apparent that Giles either needed to somehow make his table twice as big or they needed to come up with a plan. Seven people did not fit comfortably behind a standard dining room table. As it was, Angel was practically straddling Doyle's prone form and he doubted that was helping much with the speculation, never mind that Doyle was more interested in holding the tourniquet around his leg than Angel's relative position.
"We need some kind of plan," Buffy said, echoing Angel's thoughts. There couldn't be more than three or four archers but their positions made moving almost impossible.
"Hiding behind the table has been working for us so far," Xander muttered.
"Someone needs to get outside and stop at least one of those guys," Angel said. He peered around the side of the table quickly. The one in the window was a nice, vulnerable choice. "I'm going. If I get shot, I've got a better chance of it not hitting anything vital than any of you." Spike, who was littered with arrows at this point, seemed proof enough of that.
"And we aren't waiting for them to run out of arrows, why?"
"They're spirits, who's to say they will?" Angel countered.
She wanted to argue, Angel could see it in her eyes, but he was right and they both knew it. It was rather interesting that nearly all their arguments had been suspended due to some kind of violence. At least their relationship was never dull. "Be careful," she said seriously.
Doyle shifted beneath him. His eyes were open and glazed with pain. He smiled weakly. "Yeah, cause the keys to the car are in your pants."
"You couldn't drive it right now, anyway. Don't move," Angel told him and Doyle rolled his eyes.
"My one skill of running away and hiding has already been put to use. I'm spent."
The arrows lodged themselves around them in a fairly random pattern as the warriors tried to hit something useful but they did have a certain frequency. About fifteen seconds between from any direction, long enough to grab another arrow and nock it.
Fifteen seconds and he wanted that time from the spirit he'd be facing.
"When I go, try to get some weapons from the chest," Angel said, waiting. Any time now… "They'll be concentrating on me." An arrow from the direction of the window thocked into the wall over his head and Angel ran.
The first arrow hit him in the back, close to his shoulder and it burned worse than getting stabbed with a red-hot poker. Damned ancient spirits with wooden arrows, couldn't they be haunted by spirits that shopped at Outdoor World? The second went in his upper thigh, enough to make him stumble but the door wasn't that far away. He didn't bother opening it, hitting it hard enough to tear it from one hinge, splintering the latch as it flew open. He had time to yank the arrow from his leg before one of them jumped on his back, a knife at his throat and a tearing pain from the arrow on his shoulder as it was jerked to the side.
But he wasn't as human as they seemed to think he was.
He reached over his shoulder, grabbed a handful of hair and simply yanked the spirit off him. There was a surprised grunt as he hit the ground and before he could recover, Angel snapped his neck. In this case, kill or be killed wasn't even appropriate. These creatures had long since been dead and dust, and that was where they belonged. Ironic coming from a vampire but then, Sunnydale was a place for irony.
The others were faring poorly, the warriors bitterly strong and somehow impossible to kill. Even the one at his feet was stirring weakly, eyes blazing hatred and promising death. Angel kicked him in the face, hard enough to splatter blood if the creature beneath him had been human. Once, twice and it stilled, finally, and part of him was sickened by this.
Another part of him liked it just fine, burning cold somewhere near his unbeating heart. Crushing skulls beneath his boots lacked art but there was music to be made in a scream. It was the same thing that put a smirk on Spike's face as he watched Buffy struggling with the leader and it was what gave Angel the skill to snatch up the Chumash knife at his feet and hurl it with deadly aim at the warrior who was creeping up behind her. He fell back with a shriek and a fine spray of blood and, of course their own weapons could hurt them. Their weapons were their own destruction, his demon allowed him to save those he cared about. Irony, thy name is Sunnydale.
After that, it was simple. Simple as battles to the death go, anyway. It wasn't even as dusty as killing vampires and there was nothing to do but straighten the furniture, rehang the door and listen to Giles mutter about the various arrow holes in his home.
One of which was in the man on the sofa. The only person injured was Doyle, and he was none too pleased about it, either. The others were finishing with dinner preparations while Angel and Giles tried to decide just what to do about the injury.
The arrow had a small head, which was a relief, and the blood was neither gushing nor spurting so it was a safe guess that it hadn't hit any major veins or arteries. It was deep enough into the meat of his thigh that it would probably bleed well enough once the arrow was removed. However, the question of what to do about said removal was still in the debate process.
"Perhaps we should simply take him to the hospital," Giles suggested. They had cut away the pant leg from around it, despite Doyle's loud protests, and Giles was examining the wound. "They aren't likely to ask more than the basic questions."
"Right, and then they decide I need a tetanus shot and do a little bloodwork, and then I get to play Operation." Doyle tried to jerk away as Giles gently probed the wound and yelped in pain as it jostled the arrow. "Trust me, if I go in on a stretcher, I'll leave in a body bag. Finding out my blood is 0-Demon-Positive would get those soldier boys of the party favor salivating, and will you stop touching it!"
"Then we need to pull the arrow out so we can get some pressure on the wound," Angel said quietly. He moved to kneel next to the sofa and rolled up his sleeves. Doyle's eyes went wide.
"What? It hurt enough going in and you're just gonna yank it out? What about anesthetic, fuck, can't you just bandage around it, can't I even have a whiskey, Angel, man, don't--fuck, OW!!"
The arrow came out with a deeply sickening popping sound, followed by a surging tide of blood that splattered Angel. It was stunningly warm over his hands, flecks of it on his face. Giles was there immediately with a thick bandage. He covered it quickly, putting hard pressure on it to stop the bleeding and that left Angel to sit there, his fingers painted with Doyle's blood. No one else was watching them, all of them dealing with the own problems, checking on their friends, making sure the pies weren't burnt.
Nothing but Doyle watching him with steady eyes that still watered with pain. A warm droplet was just beneath Angel's lower lip. He could feel it sliding ticklishly downward and if he flicked his tongue out, he could taste it. It would taste just like it smelled, he knew, only better, the faint gamey scent that said demon would be a cooling wash over his tongue, half-demon but half-human and that would be unique, a delicacy rarely tasted. Strange things that mingled oddly, uncomfortably, on the palate, corn chips and chocolate type of taste. Better than cold animal blood by a ratio that couldn't even be defined.
A low growl behind made him turn and look, his hands still dripping with cooling blood. Spike was straining against his ropes, his face twisted into his demon visage. His eyes were on Angel's hands, following the droplets that fell to the floor in tiny, perfect circles of crimson. Angel clenched his fists, felt blood squelch between his fingers, and nearly snarled back, his meal, his and if Spike so much as tried to lick the drying specks from the floor, he would--
Stop it!
Angel closed his eyes briefly, reopened them to find Doyle was still watching him silently, hardly seeming to notice as Giles added another thick wad of bandages to the soaked ones against his leg. No condemnation in his eyes. Nothing but calm waiting.
Angel got carefully to his feet, moving slowly as he couldn't use his hands for balance. He brushed past Willow, who was setting the table, and Xander, who was trying to sneak a piece of turkey without being seen. He walked into the bathroom, turned on the faucet with the tips of his fingers and scrubbed away the blood until his hands burned from the friction.
It was a small hole that only needed a couple of sutures. Giles managed it while Angel held Doyle still, and listened in silence while he complained about the pain, his pants, the lack of whiskey and he knew there was brandy out there, they'd used it in the sweet potatoes.
Angel didn't mind. A complaining Doyle was a living one and he'd pitch in an entire bottle of whiskey on the way home for that. An expensive bottle.
Someone stepped up next to him and Angel looked up automatically to see Willow. "Were you both staying for dinner," she asked anxiously, her hands filled with silverware.
It was so tempting to say yes. To stay here for just a little while longer and just…bask in it. Buffy was in the kitchen, scooping mashed potatoes into a serving dish. She didn't look at him.
"I don't think we should," he said quietly, and it was like the room started breathing again. True to form, it was Spike who broke the tension.
"What about me, don't I get anything to eat?" Spike whined.
"Suck on a band aid," Doyle mumbled and tossed one of the bloody bandages in his direction. It fell short of the mark and a chorus of, "Ew, gross!" was struck up from the other side of the room. Angel rolled his eyes and retrieved it. The demon was banked back, for now, and nothing about it called to anything but the trash can.
"Behave," Angel told him, automatically reaching down to ruffle Doyle's hair. Just a light touch, nothing, really, and Doyle barely murmured a protest. No one else noticed, certainly not to think it was out of the ordinary.
No one but Buffy.
He saw it in her eyes, the knowledge of it and knew he couldn't escape it this time. He should have known from the beginning; he was poor liar and he'd never been able to hide things from her. Had never really wanted to, until now.
Anya was helping with the arrow removal from Spike, and when Angel stepped into the kitchen, they were alone. Buffy didn't look up from the relish tray she was arranging, and her voice was pitched low to keep her friends from hearing. "It's true, isn't it. About him."
"It's not what you think."
"What, you aren't sleeping with him?" Cool disbelief and it made his soul ache.
"Okay, it is partly what you think. It's not...Doyle was sent by the Powers That Be and we—" he fumbled, trying to explain, hating the hurt in her eyes. "I'm sorry." It felt as lame as it sounded. He'd come to protect her and in the process ripped open every healing wound between them. It was worth it, he told himself. Better a little emotional pain then dead. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Yeah? Well, that seems to be the only thing you're really good at."
He flinched, didn't deny it. Couldn't.
"Do you love him?" she asked, his voice small and hurt. Angel opened his mouth, his mind blank—and laughter from the living room made them both look out. Everyone was gathered around the sofa and Doyle seemed to be telling them a story, his hands flying as he described something that was apparently large and ferocious. Describing one of their cases, maybe. Or possibly what it was like working with Cordelia.
Angel watched him and when the others laughed again, Doyle laughed too and then winced as it jostled his leg.
"I'm sorry," Buffy said, and he tore his gaze away, back to her. "I shouldn't have asked that."
"Considering what you know about me, I think that's a fair enough question," he said distantly. "There's no danger. He has these visions and that's the only thing that helps. That’s all."
"I still shouldn't have. We're both moving on. We don't live in each others lives anymore. I mean, I'm dating too—"
"I know, but—you're what?"
"It doesn't matter," Buffy shook her head, and wrapped her arms around herself. She looked up at him and her eyes were so much older, as old as he was. Older. Like they had been when he'd returned from Hell. "Just—take care of yourself, okay?"
He hugged her then, tightly, and in that moment, if she had asked him to stay, he would have. He would have damned everything, damned himself yet again and stayed with her, he loved her so much. God, he loved her. It had taken everything within him to leave the first time and he simply didn't have it to give again.
But she let him go and stepped away, went back out into the light with her friends. As he watched her go, Angel's eyes fell again on Doyle. He wasn't asleep but it wouldn't be too much longer, his lashes dipping heavily against his cheeks and Willow smiled at whatever he said to her.
He watched them silently before he went back out to say his goodbyes.
Again.
The trip back to the hotel was uneventful, Angel not feeling like driving back to LA that night and Doyle not up to much more than sleeping. Doyle didn't even complain when Angel carried him up to the room. His one pitiful look at the stairs had been more than enough and Angel had scooped him out of the car before he could even ask for help.
He was already more asleep than not, his leg propped on the spare pillows and the promised bottle of whiskey half-empty in his loose grip. Angel was sitting in the splintery wooden chair, watching silently and ready to take the bottle as soon as Doyle's grip relaxed a little more.
"You all right?" Doyle apparently had more energy left in him than Angel had given him credit for.
"I doubt it," he sighed, his eyes still on Doyle, who was sprawled out on the bed in a mockery of seduction. They'd pulled off his ruined pants and called his boxers good enough. Perfectly normal underclothes, grey cotton, not even satin like Angel was partial to, and a white t-shirt, ordinary guy clothes and Angel wanted to fuck him so badly he could feel the ache in his back teeth.
Almost wanted to hurt him, to bruise him and lick at his pain, his own inner pain like something tangible and he wanted to share it with Doyle, spread it thin between them until maybe it would vanish. And he could strip away that plain cotton to get to the soft, soft skin beneath it and listen to Doyle croon obscenities in his ear while he fucked him, slow and deep, scalded by the depths of Doyle's body and he could watch when those green eyes rolled back just a little, the press of a pink tongue caught between his teeth as Doyle came.
Sex with a man was as messy as it came, he had discovered, and afterward, they would both be sticky and wet, stinking of sex and all the fluids that came with it and they could either wash it away or fall asleep in it, waking later to the dimmed thickness of it still in the air.
He wanted it so badly he could already smell it or maybe that was just from the night before. Already it seemed he was getting to used to this, some deeply deprived part of himself had awoken and cried out for it. He wanted it, and knew he couldn't have it.
Instead, he watched him fall asleep, gingerly rescuing the bottle before stretching out on the bed next to him. Laid his head on Doyle's chest and he smelled nothing like Buffy. Certainly didn't feel like her either but he was warm and his heartbeat was a steady thud beneath Angel's ear. He lay there in the dark and listened to it for a long time.
end chapter
Author: Keelywolfe
Series: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Doyle
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Any latecomers can find all the other parts here.
~~*~~
It was quickly becoming apparent that Giles either needed to somehow make his table twice as big or they needed to come up with a plan. Seven people did not fit comfortably behind a standard dining room table. As it was, Angel was practically straddling Doyle's prone form and he doubted that was helping much with the speculation, never mind that Doyle was more interested in holding the tourniquet around his leg than Angel's relative position.
"We need some kind of plan," Buffy said, echoing Angel's thoughts. There couldn't be more than three or four archers but their positions made moving almost impossible.
"Hiding behind the table has been working for us so far," Xander muttered.
"Someone needs to get outside and stop at least one of those guys," Angel said. He peered around the side of the table quickly. The one in the window was a nice, vulnerable choice. "I'm going. If I get shot, I've got a better chance of it not hitting anything vital than any of you." Spike, who was littered with arrows at this point, seemed proof enough of that.
"And we aren't waiting for them to run out of arrows, why?"
"They're spirits, who's to say they will?" Angel countered.
She wanted to argue, Angel could see it in her eyes, but he was right and they both knew it. It was rather interesting that nearly all their arguments had been suspended due to some kind of violence. At least their relationship was never dull. "Be careful," she said seriously.
Doyle shifted beneath him. His eyes were open and glazed with pain. He smiled weakly. "Yeah, cause the keys to the car are in your pants."
"You couldn't drive it right now, anyway. Don't move," Angel told him and Doyle rolled his eyes.
"My one skill of running away and hiding has already been put to use. I'm spent."
The arrows lodged themselves around them in a fairly random pattern as the warriors tried to hit something useful but they did have a certain frequency. About fifteen seconds between from any direction, long enough to grab another arrow and nock it.
Fifteen seconds and he wanted that time from the spirit he'd be facing.
"When I go, try to get some weapons from the chest," Angel said, waiting. Any time now… "They'll be concentrating on me." An arrow from the direction of the window thocked into the wall over his head and Angel ran.
The first arrow hit him in the back, close to his shoulder and it burned worse than getting stabbed with a red-hot poker. Damned ancient spirits with wooden arrows, couldn't they be haunted by spirits that shopped at Outdoor World? The second went in his upper thigh, enough to make him stumble but the door wasn't that far away. He didn't bother opening it, hitting it hard enough to tear it from one hinge, splintering the latch as it flew open. He had time to yank the arrow from his leg before one of them jumped on his back, a knife at his throat and a tearing pain from the arrow on his shoulder as it was jerked to the side.
But he wasn't as human as they seemed to think he was.
He reached over his shoulder, grabbed a handful of hair and simply yanked the spirit off him. There was a surprised grunt as he hit the ground and before he could recover, Angel snapped his neck. In this case, kill or be killed wasn't even appropriate. These creatures had long since been dead and dust, and that was where they belonged. Ironic coming from a vampire but then, Sunnydale was a place for irony.
The others were faring poorly, the warriors bitterly strong and somehow impossible to kill. Even the one at his feet was stirring weakly, eyes blazing hatred and promising death. Angel kicked him in the face, hard enough to splatter blood if the creature beneath him had been human. Once, twice and it stilled, finally, and part of him was sickened by this.
Another part of him liked it just fine, burning cold somewhere near his unbeating heart. Crushing skulls beneath his boots lacked art but there was music to be made in a scream. It was the same thing that put a smirk on Spike's face as he watched Buffy struggling with the leader and it was what gave Angel the skill to snatch up the Chumash knife at his feet and hurl it with deadly aim at the warrior who was creeping up behind her. He fell back with a shriek and a fine spray of blood and, of course their own weapons could hurt them. Their weapons were their own destruction, his demon allowed him to save those he cared about. Irony, thy name is Sunnydale.
~~*~~
After that, it was simple. Simple as battles to the death go, anyway. It wasn't even as dusty as killing vampires and there was nothing to do but straighten the furniture, rehang the door and listen to Giles mutter about the various arrow holes in his home.
One of which was in the man on the sofa. The only person injured was Doyle, and he was none too pleased about it, either. The others were finishing with dinner preparations while Angel and Giles tried to decide just what to do about the injury.
The arrow had a small head, which was a relief, and the blood was neither gushing nor spurting so it was a safe guess that it hadn't hit any major veins or arteries. It was deep enough into the meat of his thigh that it would probably bleed well enough once the arrow was removed. However, the question of what to do about said removal was still in the debate process.
"Perhaps we should simply take him to the hospital," Giles suggested. They had cut away the pant leg from around it, despite Doyle's loud protests, and Giles was examining the wound. "They aren't likely to ask more than the basic questions."
"Right, and then they decide I need a tetanus shot and do a little bloodwork, and then I get to play Operation." Doyle tried to jerk away as Giles gently probed the wound and yelped in pain as it jostled the arrow. "Trust me, if I go in on a stretcher, I'll leave in a body bag. Finding out my blood is 0-Demon-Positive would get those soldier boys of the party favor salivating, and will you stop touching it!"
"Then we need to pull the arrow out so we can get some pressure on the wound," Angel said quietly. He moved to kneel next to the sofa and rolled up his sleeves. Doyle's eyes went wide.
"What? It hurt enough going in and you're just gonna yank it out? What about anesthetic, fuck, can't you just bandage around it, can't I even have a whiskey, Angel, man, don't--fuck, OW!!"
The arrow came out with a deeply sickening popping sound, followed by a surging tide of blood that splattered Angel. It was stunningly warm over his hands, flecks of it on his face. Giles was there immediately with a thick bandage. He covered it quickly, putting hard pressure on it to stop the bleeding and that left Angel to sit there, his fingers painted with Doyle's blood. No one else was watching them, all of them dealing with the own problems, checking on their friends, making sure the pies weren't burnt.
Nothing but Doyle watching him with steady eyes that still watered with pain. A warm droplet was just beneath Angel's lower lip. He could feel it sliding ticklishly downward and if he flicked his tongue out, he could taste it. It would taste just like it smelled, he knew, only better, the faint gamey scent that said demon would be a cooling wash over his tongue, half-demon but half-human and that would be unique, a delicacy rarely tasted. Strange things that mingled oddly, uncomfortably, on the palate, corn chips and chocolate type of taste. Better than cold animal blood by a ratio that couldn't even be defined.
A low growl behind made him turn and look, his hands still dripping with cooling blood. Spike was straining against his ropes, his face twisted into his demon visage. His eyes were on Angel's hands, following the droplets that fell to the floor in tiny, perfect circles of crimson. Angel clenched his fists, felt blood squelch between his fingers, and nearly snarled back, his meal, his and if Spike so much as tried to lick the drying specks from the floor, he would--
Stop it!
Angel closed his eyes briefly, reopened them to find Doyle was still watching him silently, hardly seeming to notice as Giles added another thick wad of bandages to the soaked ones against his leg. No condemnation in his eyes. Nothing but calm waiting.
Angel got carefully to his feet, moving slowly as he couldn't use his hands for balance. He brushed past Willow, who was setting the table, and Xander, who was trying to sneak a piece of turkey without being seen. He walked into the bathroom, turned on the faucet with the tips of his fingers and scrubbed away the blood until his hands burned from the friction.
~~*~~
It was a small hole that only needed a couple of sutures. Giles managed it while Angel held Doyle still, and listened in silence while he complained about the pain, his pants, the lack of whiskey and he knew there was brandy out there, they'd used it in the sweet potatoes.
Angel didn't mind. A complaining Doyle was a living one and he'd pitch in an entire bottle of whiskey on the way home for that. An expensive bottle.
Someone stepped up next to him and Angel looked up automatically to see Willow. "Were you both staying for dinner," she asked anxiously, her hands filled with silverware.
It was so tempting to say yes. To stay here for just a little while longer and just…bask in it. Buffy was in the kitchen, scooping mashed potatoes into a serving dish. She didn't look at him.
"I don't think we should," he said quietly, and it was like the room started breathing again. True to form, it was Spike who broke the tension.
"What about me, don't I get anything to eat?" Spike whined.
"Suck on a band aid," Doyle mumbled and tossed one of the bloody bandages in his direction. It fell short of the mark and a chorus of, "Ew, gross!" was struck up from the other side of the room. Angel rolled his eyes and retrieved it. The demon was banked back, for now, and nothing about it called to anything but the trash can.
"Behave," Angel told him, automatically reaching down to ruffle Doyle's hair. Just a light touch, nothing, really, and Doyle barely murmured a protest. No one else noticed, certainly not to think it was out of the ordinary.
No one but Buffy.
He saw it in her eyes, the knowledge of it and knew he couldn't escape it this time. He should have known from the beginning; he was poor liar and he'd never been able to hide things from her. Had never really wanted to, until now.
Anya was helping with the arrow removal from Spike, and when Angel stepped into the kitchen, they were alone. Buffy didn't look up from the relish tray she was arranging, and her voice was pitched low to keep her friends from hearing. "It's true, isn't it. About him."
"It's not what you think."
"What, you aren't sleeping with him?" Cool disbelief and it made his soul ache.
"Okay, it is partly what you think. It's not...Doyle was sent by the Powers That Be and we—" he fumbled, trying to explain, hating the hurt in her eyes. "I'm sorry." It felt as lame as it sounded. He'd come to protect her and in the process ripped open every healing wound between them. It was worth it, he told himself. Better a little emotional pain then dead. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Yeah? Well, that seems to be the only thing you're really good at."
He flinched, didn't deny it. Couldn't.
"Do you love him?" she asked, his voice small and hurt. Angel opened his mouth, his mind blank—and laughter from the living room made them both look out. Everyone was gathered around the sofa and Doyle seemed to be telling them a story, his hands flying as he described something that was apparently large and ferocious. Describing one of their cases, maybe. Or possibly what it was like working with Cordelia.
Angel watched him and when the others laughed again, Doyle laughed too and then winced as it jostled his leg.
"I'm sorry," Buffy said, and he tore his gaze away, back to her. "I shouldn't have asked that."
"Considering what you know about me, I think that's a fair enough question," he said distantly. "There's no danger. He has these visions and that's the only thing that helps. That’s all."
"I still shouldn't have. We're both moving on. We don't live in each others lives anymore. I mean, I'm dating too—"
"I know, but—you're what?"
"It doesn't matter," Buffy shook her head, and wrapped her arms around herself. She looked up at him and her eyes were so much older, as old as he was. Older. Like they had been when he'd returned from Hell. "Just—take care of yourself, okay?"
He hugged her then, tightly, and in that moment, if she had asked him to stay, he would have. He would have damned everything, damned himself yet again and stayed with her, he loved her so much. God, he loved her. It had taken everything within him to leave the first time and he simply didn't have it to give again.
But she let him go and stepped away, went back out into the light with her friends. As he watched her go, Angel's eyes fell again on Doyle. He wasn't asleep but it wouldn't be too much longer, his lashes dipping heavily against his cheeks and Willow smiled at whatever he said to her.
He watched them silently before he went back out to say his goodbyes.
Again.
~~*~~
The trip back to the hotel was uneventful, Angel not feeling like driving back to LA that night and Doyle not up to much more than sleeping. Doyle didn't even complain when Angel carried him up to the room. His one pitiful look at the stairs had been more than enough and Angel had scooped him out of the car before he could even ask for help.
He was already more asleep than not, his leg propped on the spare pillows and the promised bottle of whiskey half-empty in his loose grip. Angel was sitting in the splintery wooden chair, watching silently and ready to take the bottle as soon as Doyle's grip relaxed a little more.
"You all right?" Doyle apparently had more energy left in him than Angel had given him credit for.
"I doubt it," he sighed, his eyes still on Doyle, who was sprawled out on the bed in a mockery of seduction. They'd pulled off his ruined pants and called his boxers good enough. Perfectly normal underclothes, grey cotton, not even satin like Angel was partial to, and a white t-shirt, ordinary guy clothes and Angel wanted to fuck him so badly he could feel the ache in his back teeth.
Almost wanted to hurt him, to bruise him and lick at his pain, his own inner pain like something tangible and he wanted to share it with Doyle, spread it thin between them until maybe it would vanish. And he could strip away that plain cotton to get to the soft, soft skin beneath it and listen to Doyle croon obscenities in his ear while he fucked him, slow and deep, scalded by the depths of Doyle's body and he could watch when those green eyes rolled back just a little, the press of a pink tongue caught between his teeth as Doyle came.
Sex with a man was as messy as it came, he had discovered, and afterward, they would both be sticky and wet, stinking of sex and all the fluids that came with it and they could either wash it away or fall asleep in it, waking later to the dimmed thickness of it still in the air.
He wanted it so badly he could already smell it or maybe that was just from the night before. Already it seemed he was getting to used to this, some deeply deprived part of himself had awoken and cried out for it. He wanted it, and knew he couldn't have it.
Instead, he watched him fall asleep, gingerly rescuing the bottle before stretching out on the bed next to him. Laid his head on Doyle's chest and he smelled nothing like Buffy. Certainly didn't feel like her either but he was warm and his heartbeat was a steady thud beneath Angel's ear. He lay there in the dark and listened to it for a long time.
~~*~~
end chapter
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-07-20 07:06 pm (UTC)This is so very good. Really excellent. :-)
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Date: 2004-07-23 04:29 pm (UTC)BTW, I still love that icon. *G*
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Date: 2004-07-23 05:22 pm (UTC)I think this is from the batch of "You're not gay..." icons that
no subject
Date: 2004-07-20 08:31 pm (UTC)Loved Angel's reaction to having Doyle's blood on his face/hands.
It had taken everything within him to leave the first time and he simply didn't have it to give again.
Ouch -- the conversation with Buffy was incredibly painful.
Almost wanted to hurt him, to bruise him and lick at his pain, his own inner pain like something tangible and he wanted to share it with Doyle, spread it thin between them until maybe it would vanish.
Gah -- the last scene was hot and sad at the same time.
I think I've said this before, but I really like that you are making Angel face his love for Buffy instead of pretending that she doesn't exist. And having Doyle be sympathetic to his feelings is an added bonus. :)
no subject
Date: 2004-07-23 04:30 pm (UTC)Stories where Buffy is easily dismissed always bother me, as we are shown time and again that neither of them ever manage to dismiss the other. And thank you! :)
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Date: 2004-07-20 11:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-23 04:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-20 11:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-23 04:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-21 01:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-21 09:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-21 01:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-23 04:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-21 04:35 am (UTC)poor angel, the choices one must make. and doyle is soo lovely. anyways can't wait to see how this ends when they get back to la.
thanks.
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Date: 2004-07-23 04:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-21 05:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-23 04:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-21 08:50 pm (UTC)I can't say enough about how much I adore this series. *snogs you to death*
AND!!
AND!!!!!!!
SQUEE!!! I just ran out and got my mail! I love you!!!!!
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Date: 2004-07-23 04:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-22 11:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-23 04:37 pm (UTC)Thank you so much. :)
And Doyle, it's such a shame he and the actor are now gone, because I miss the one and then the other greatly.
I admit, the actor's death made me slightly hesitant to write this. Not because I feel wrong about it, really, but because I was really quite pained about it. I'm not one to form attachments to actors and I don't pretend to know them at all, but I was crushed when Doyle left the series and even worse when Glen Quinn died. At least I can still enjoy what he managed to leave behind.
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Date: 2004-07-23 05:20 pm (UTC)Ditto on both. I've always thought the series wasn't ever as good as it could have been if Doyle had been able to stay. It lacked something without his presence, he just jazzed everything. It's hard to explain, I guess i mean his natural charisma. And he sparked with Angel. That's another reason your story works here, as well as just being written really damn good, I remember what it was like when Doyle was there.