"Nervous?" Doyle asked, filling out the forms, his new passport in front of him. Wesley hadn't asked where the passport came from, but it looked genuine - which it simply could not be, since all Doyle's possessions had been sold or thrown away after his death.

"Why would I be nervous?" Wesley countered. He still hadn't managed to open that damned bag of peanuts. He hated peanuts, thought them uneatable, but he hadn't had lunch yet and had to eat something or start biting his nails.

Doyle's shrugged. "I'm nervous."

"Well, all right then, so am I." Wesley pulled the little bag harder, and peanuts spilled out all over their seats. He did *not* appreciate the little grin Doyle gave him.

"Try thinking about something else."

"Like what?"

Doyle looked up and seemed to search for something. Finally, he pointed down the aisle. A stewardess was filling up the carts, preparing for the next meal. She must be almost six feet tall, and most of it was legs. Quite fine looking legs. Wesley found himself scowling.

"Really, Doyle, that's vulgar."

"You don't like her?"

"She's beautiful." The stewardess finished with the cart and started walking, and Wesley quickly concentrated on picking up the peanuts. "But I'm not in the habit of eyeing up strange women."

"I am," Doyle replied, quite shamelessly keeping up the staring. Wesley gave him a mortifying look.

"Are you trying to make me jealous?"

"No, I'm trying to make you more comfortable."

"By showing me beautiful women? Didn't I remind you of the sort of things you can't do in a public aeroplane?"

Doyle smacked him with the passport. "Are you trying to make *me* jealous?"

"Yes."

Doyle smacked him again, then gave a beautiful smile as the stewardess came up to their row. "Ah, here's lunch."

Lunch was a rather tasteless piece of pie, but Wesley was too hungry to care. He ate it all without even stopping to speak, while Doyle took it easy, laughing and joking with the children on the row in front of them. Unlike Wesley, Doyle was never shy with children, if anything he was more at ease with them than with adults. Occasionally, he gave a comment to the mother, who seemed to genuinely like him, but whose eyes kept walking from Wesley to Doyle, probably trying to make sense of their relationship. Other people on the plane had already figured it out, or so it seemed to Wesley, who wasn't sure if people were actually staring at him or if he was just being paranoid. Probably both. He tried telling himself that these were complete strangers, no different than the people of L.A. who could see him and Doyle together all the time, and that it didn't matter what they thought. There wasn't anyone he knew on the plane after all, so it wasn't as if his family would ever find out. Unless they had placed a spy on the plane, which wouldn't be below his father, he was sure. Goodness, he really was getting paranoid.

"Do you live in Dublin?" the woman asked, and Doyle shook his head. The little girl had demanded that he braid her hair, and he was giving it a fair try.

"My family lives there," he explained, "but Wes and I live in Los Angeles. Okay, love, I'm done now."

The last was said to the little girl, who touched the crooked little braid and wrinkled her nose. "That's not good."

"Well, thank you so much," he replied, yanking it. "I'll have you know I did my best."

"I always thought Ireland seemed like such a wonderful country," the woman said, rocking the youngest child to make it sleep. "But this is the first time I've ever been there. Sally, don't put your shoes on the seat, they're dirty."

Sally obediently took off her shoes and then tossed them away. One of them fell in the aisle. Doyle watched her with a smile, and then the smile disappeared and he stared at the shoe for a moment before closing his eyes.

"Oh my God..."

"Doyle?" Wesley was immediately alerted at the change of behaviour and grabbed Doyle's shoulders. "What's wrong? Can you hear me?"

"Why didn't I help them?" Doyle asked, his face horrified. "It's all my fault..."

Wesley held him closer and thought with wry humour that by now he could have made a full list of Doyle's worst memories, because they all returned regularly. Now, if only the people around would find something more interesting to stare at.

"Is he okay?" the children's mother asked and stopped rocking her youngest. She seemed ready to drag her children out of reach if necessary.

"He..." What? He died too often for comfort. He's been stuffed with experimental drugs until even his demon physiognomy couldn't take it anymore. He's been royally screwed over by the Powers that Be even after they promised him atonement. Obviously Wesley couldn't say any of those things. "He has bad memories, they return sometimes." Well, it wasn't a lie.

"Oh." The woman relaxed again, and hushed her baby, that had started to cry. "That's an awful pity."

She gave Wesley an awkward smile and turned away in obvious discomfort. The children kept watching, young enough to pick curiosity over politeness. Wesley promptly ignored them, as well as the rest of the passengers, and gave Doyle a soft kiss on the forehead.

Something brushed against his arm, and he looked down to find Sally's hand clasping Doyle's. Judging from her expression she was ready to be reproached for it and simply considered it important enough to take the chance. He smiled at her, relieved she hadn't chosen the peeking, giggling approach of her brother and half the plane.

Doyle's eyes wandered down to the little hand, clearly with some sign of recognition. It seemed the terror was over for this time. And so was any doubt there could have been among the passengers about the nature of their relationship.

"Name, rank, destination?" Wesley asked, and Doyle gave him a weak smile.

"Allen Francis Doyle, yours, Dublin."

"Glad to have you back."

Wesley knew better than to fuss over Doyle once an attack was over. He merely gave his lover a squeeze and then went to search his bag for something to read. Most of the books he liked were too heavy to pack, and the books for work even more so. Three of them had been squeezed down into the suitcase anyway, but the bag had only a few idiotic magazines he'd already read and a couple of books picked up at the airport. He had never read anything by either writer, but had a vague memory of José Saramago being a Nobel Prize winner, so he took that one.

"Do you want anything?" he asked Doyle, who was just letting go of Sally's hand.

The corners of Doyle's lips tilted upwards, just a little. "Give me Seventeen."

"I don't know why you wanted to buy that," Wesley sighed, handing it over.

"You're the one with a little sister and you've never discovered the fun that is teen magazines?" Doyle asked. "No childhood should be deprived of teen magazines. Grab one now and make up for it."

"No, thank you," Wesley said, starting on Saramago. The book was written with a bizarre punctuation, he found to his dismay. He was no stranger to complicated novels full of scientific or philosophical problems. On the contrary, he liked those, even when he didn't understand them. But when it came to language, he was simply very conservative. A sentence should end with a full stop, not a bloody comma. Still, he would hate to admit that he couldn't understand a novelist. It was a short story, he could read it through before the plane was down, no matter what sort of grammatical insanities they threw at him.

Doyle glanced at him. The tears were definitely gone from those brilliant eyes now. "You don't like your book, do you?"

"It's not quite my style, no."

"So, let's trade. I get the book, and you get Seventeen Magazine."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Come on, you know you want to read it. Here's your chance."

"No."

Doyle leaned closer. "Or I could just whisper into your ear exactly what I would do to you if this wasn't a public aeroplane."

Wesley could feel himself getting hard just from Doyle's voice in his ear. "Oh, give it to me," he said with a scowl, snatching the magazine from Doyle's fingers.

He wasn't nervous at all anymore, he discovered. Oh, no doubt he would be again, but right now nothing fate could throw at him seemed very threatening. They'd been through worse, apart and together.

**********

Right after they entered the airport, Doyle shouted, "Mum! Aunt Judy! Here we are!"

Wesley followed Doyle's gaze to the two women he was waving at. It was quite obvious that they were Doyle's relatives, with their dark hair and porcelain skin. He couldn't see their eyes from this distance, but he was willing to bet they were mainly green and changing colour depending on the light.

The thinner one had to be Maureen, Wesley determined as the women came closer. Physically, she looked so much like Doyle it was almost scary, and yet there was a vague difference in the way they moved, and the smile that lit up her serious little face wasn't anything like Doyle's. The fat one, obviously, was Judith. Doyle had told Wesley how fat his aunt was, but Wesley had assumed he was exaggerating. Now it was evident he hadn't been. The woman was rounder than a Russian babushka doll, but there was nothing clumsy or ungraceful about her. Before her sister had even come halfway, she was already hugging Doyle, lifting him into the air in the process. She repeated the procedure with Wesley, in spite of him being head and shoulders taller than her.

"You're Frankie's young man!" she told him as if he had shown any doubt in the matter. "I'm so happy to meet you. Both of you. It's wonderful to have you here."

Wesley smiled, wondering if he was supposed to answer that, and if he was allowed to wait until he had his breath back. Doyle just gave her a broad grin and turned his attention to his mother. She had finally come up to them, and now stood absolutely still, just watching her son. Her eyes were brilliant with tears, but she didn't seem about to shed them.

"Welcome," she said in a low voice, giving Doyle a peck on his cheek, lighter than a butterfly. After that, they just stood there again, until Doyle remembered Wesley and took his arm.

"Mum, this is Wesley."

"I know." She gave Wesley a shy smile and hugged him. Her grip was somewhat easier on him than that of Judith's bearlike arms. "You're very welcome here."

"I'm just welcome, but he's very welcome?" Doyle teased his mother. "That's not very fair."

"He's a guest," Maureen snapped. "Now, let's go get your luggage."

Wesley was jarred by this unsentimental comment at a resurrected son, but Doyle didn't seem to mind, simply following his mother to the baggage claim.

"So, Wesley," Judith said while they were waiting for the bags to appear, "I heard your sister was getting married?"

"That's right." Wesley didn't quite know what to say about that, but it was clear that more was expected of him than just the simple affirmative. "She, uh... next week. With Stephen Healey. He's an old friend of the family."

"Oh, so they're childhood sweethearts, then?"

"Not really." He didn't even know when they had fallen in love. Stephen was a good enough man, it wasn't that, but Bess had never shown any interest in him. At least she never had three years ago, but then again, a lot could happen in three years. If someone had told him three years ago that he'd end up with someone like Doyle, he would most likely have attempted to punch them. Probably failed, too.

"But you are staying for a few days, aren't you?" Maureen asked.

"I planned to stay for three days."

Maureen nodded. "Enough time for Kilkenny, then."

"Mom, no!" Doyle's eyes widened in mock terror. "He didn't come here to get dragged through all our relatives."

"Well, I'm really not seeing why we shouldn't — isn't that your suitcase?"

Doyle hurried to get his suitcase off the reel, and Wesley found his own further down. Doyle turned back to Wesley and explained with a grin, "My uncle Sean lives in Kilkenny. They have eight children, and most of *them* have children of their own. I could also mention that nearly all take after aunt Bridget and won't stop talking." He noticed Wesley's worried glance and asked his mother, "How much have you been telling aunt Bridget, anyway?"

"Just that you brought a friend," Maureen said, and with her eyes set on Wesley, she continued, "I didn't know how much you wanted people to know."

Wesley wondered how much *she* knew about his reasons to remain closeted, and his eyes drifted towards Doyle, who gave a lopsided smile.

"You're being lovely, mum," Doyle said, taking the pack of cigarette from his pocket. This immediately caused Judith to perk up and ask for one, and that was the last thing she said until they entered the parking lot.

Wesley had the disadvantage of not knowing which car he was looking for, and so he drifted behind a bit, looking at his surroundings. When he saw Doyle and Maureen head up to a old beige Volvo, he moved to join them, but was stopped by Judith's hand on his arm.

"Give them this moment," she said, drawing in smoke from her cigarette. "They're not likely to get another one."

Mother and son were standing together by the passenger door, heads close, and Judith was right, it was only a moment before Maureen moved over to the other side, but it was an important one.

"Nice and easy now," Judith said as if she had been talking to a growling dog instead of a nervous, uptight Englishman. "He's yours fifty weeks of a year. You have time to spend a few minutes of quality time with me while he's talking to his mother."

Wesley smiled. He was beginning to like Judith, she actually reminded him more of Doyle than Maureen did. "Quality time it is, then."

"Your sister," Judith said, apparently set on including conversation in this quality time of hers. "What's her name?"

"Elizabeth. Bess."

"Bess? Bess and Wes? Whose brilliant idea was that?"

"Don't you start now," Wesley warned her, already more comfortable with the situation. "Doyle has mocked me quite enough."

Judith grinned and dropped the cigarette, stepping on it with a foot remarkably small for such a large body. "Is she as lucky in love as the two of you?"

It took a while for Wesley to realise that this was at least half a compliment. Actually answering the question took even longer. "Stephen is very nice..." He was also one of the few acquaintances of the Wyndham-Pryce family who wasn't in any way associated with the Council of Watchers. If Bess was to marry an old friend, it made sense that it would be him, but Bess had always been of a contrary mind and he'd have been less surprised if she had run off with some punk. He suddenly realised it bothered him that Bess had made what would be seen as a good match, when he had been the one who had tried to live up to the family's expectations.

"But he's not the man for romantic dreams?" she suggested. "If that was necessary for marriage, I probably wouldn't have three children to my name."

Wesley didn't know what to answer to that. Anything he could think of sounded extremely rude or false, or both. Judith noticed his predicament and laughed, hugging him again. She was fond of doing that, and somehow it put him at ease. He even hugged her back.

"All right!" she said after letting him go. "Now we've had our bonding and they have had theirs. Let's go home."

**********

Wesley put the phone in his lap, staring at it. It was the only phone in the house, and he had it in his bedroom. Maureen's bedroom. At first all he'd noticed was the fact that he and Doyle had been put in separate bedrooms, which was what he had expected anyway. It wasn't until the swarm of relatives had cleared that he realised that there were only two bedrooms in the house at all. One for Maureen, and one for her father-in-law. Now Doyle shared a room with his granddad, Maureen slept in the living room, and Wesley had a Queen size bed all to himself. Of course, Maureen could have arranged it all to keep him as far away from Doyle as possible, but he didn't think so. It seemed too benign for that, too thoughtful. She wasn't a sentimental woman, and her signs of affection could be hard to read, but he was rather certain this was a compliment.

As for the phone, he was very grateful for it. He could have used the cell phone, but somehow this call needed more than that. They obviously hadn't moved phone and phone lines just for his sake, but somehow it still felt that way.

His hand wasn't as steady as he could have wished for, but he managed to dial the familiar number. One ring, two, three, and then a click that made his heart skip a beat.

"Hello?"

Bess. Thank God. "Hello, Bess, it's Wesley." What were you supposed to say to a bride to be? "Congratulations."

"I'm not married yet. But thanks anyway. So, is your business done yet?"

She sounded just as condescending as she usually did when she talked about Watcher things, and Wesley wondered what she would say if she knew his "business" consisted of meeting his male lover's family. Maybe it wouldn't even bug her. He tried to remember how she had reacted last time he had been sleeping with a boy, but couldn't quite grasp it. It wasn't something he liked to think of, anyway.

"Not quite yet. I'll be coming tomorrow afternoon. Didn't mum tell you that?"

"She did. I was just hoping you might want to come earlier."

There was a brief pause, and Wesley heard the door opening downstairs. Eager paws were running up the stairs, followed by the slow steps of an old man. Soon Bono the dog stumbled into the bedroom, putting his golden head in Wesley's lap.

"I could use your support," Bess finally admitted.

That was only what could be expected, really. Doyle's granddad was entering the room to see what the dog was doing, but Wesley barely acknowledged his presence, too caught up in the conversation. "Can't Stephen hold your hand?"

"You know him, not much use in a thunderstorm," Bess said, a certain cynicism noticeable in her voice. "And to top it all, father demanded that I had a Watcher bridesmaid, so now I have Lydia Wilcox looking over my shoulder all the time. Not that she's all that bad. I got to pick which Watcher, at least."

That sounded like a somewhat odd request. Then again, who had ever expected sensible actions from the Wyndham-Pryce family? "Is she nice then, this Lydia girl?"

"Oh yes, very," Bess said, although she couldn't be accused of any enthusiasm. "Mousy sort of girl, glasses, did her thesis on William the Bloody - typical Watcher of the benign sort. She looks a bit like a 'before' picture for a makeup company," she giggled, "but then again, so do you."

"I most certainly do not!" Wesley said, uncertain whether his indignation was really all fake.

Bess giggled again. "Have you changed a lot then?"

"I do have a motorcycle," he said in the pompous tone he had learned from his boarding school teachers, that invariably made his sister laugh.

"I can just imagine. Do you have a girl on it, too?"

"Not... really. No." This certainly wasn't a wanted turn in the conversation. He was glad she couldn't see his uncomfortable expression.

"No girl?" she asked, curiosity evident in her voice.

"No."

"Because 'not really' isn't usually what people say when they mean 'no'. It's more of a 'yes, but I'm going to lie to you about it' kind of response."

She was really too damn attentive. "There is no girl. At all."

At this point, Wesley became suddenly aware that Doyle's granddad was still in the room, reading a magazine. Wesley felt his face get hot as the old man gave him an odd look.

"You really are a terrible liar. I almost can't believe we're related. But that's all right. I like you anyway."

"Why thank you so much for that professional judgment," he said, although her words warmed him. "I suppose I'll be seeing you tomorrow, then?"

"Most certainly."

Wesley had barely had time to say goodbye and hang up the phone before old Mr. Doyle asked him, "You're sleeping with my grandson, aren't you?"

What a perfectly lovely way to start a conversation. For a moment, Wesley sat there with an open mouth, happy at least that he hadn't asked Mr. Doyle what he wanted while still on the phone. It could have been rather awkward. Well, even more awkward. Wesley got himself together and pondered saying something in the way of it being none of the man's business, but that would have been rather pointless, wouldn't it?

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"That's what I thought." His face showed a strange mix of revulsion and satisfaction at being right. "I'm not some stupid old man. There were queers in my time as well."

He gave Wesley a sharp look. Wesley, not knowing what to say, simply looked back.

"He has bad blood. What's your excuse?"

"He does not have bad blood!" Never mind awkward moments, that was one thing that couldn't go unanswered.

"Oh, I wasn't meaning Maureen," Mr. Doyle said, most definitely looking pleased now. "She's a nice girl, and I shouldn't have doubted her in the first place. But I knew from the start that things weren't right, and Frank admitted to it as well - eventually. It was the naming that did it for sure. No one in our family has ever named his child after himself, so why would he, all of a sudden?"

Wesley fumed, but this was a part of Doyle's family history that he hadn't had a chance to hear before, and so he didn't say anything.

"Frankie isn't a bad sort," Mr. Doyle said slowly, in a tone of voice that meant so much more. "But his father was a rapist and..." He hesitated for a split second. "...worse, and of course it would have to show at some point."

"I *beg* your pardon!?"

This obviously just made Wesley sound like the snob he was, but at this point he didn't care. What an absolutely horrible thing to say. The dog raised its head and whined a little at Wesley's tone of voice, but he ignored it, brushing it aside and standing up.

"How *dare* you speak of him like that? As if he were some lustful demon who... I have met humans with not half the soul or conscience Doyle has, so don't you dare... Don't you dare compare him to his father. He's nothing like that. If you think he is, that just proves you don't know him at all!"

Not waiting for an answer, he stalked out of the room and down the stairs, only to run into Doyle halfway down. The look on his lover's face clearly told him he had heard it all. But he was much too agitated to stay in the house a minute longer, and so in order to be able to apologise, he took Doyle's arm and dragged him out on the street. They walked silently for about ten minutes until Wesley had calmed down enough to speak normally.

"I'm sorry you heard that."

"Heard what? You defending me?" Doyle asked with a pained grimace. "Or granddad knowing the truth?"

"It wasn't the truth," Wesley said. "Not the whole truth."

"The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth." Doyle laughed quietly, watching the windows of the stores they passed by to avoid meeting Wesley's gaze. "Most of the time I'm trying not to think about it. Like my demon side is just some freak anomaly that happens to some people... one in every ten thousand or something. But it isn't, is it?"

"Doyle..." Wesley felt helpless in the face of this revelation, but still made an attempt at comfort, putting his arm around Doyle's shoulders. "None of that affects what you are."

"It doesn't? Sometimes when I'm turning I just want to throw up. If it had been a good person, someone like Lorne, then it would have been different. But those ugly-looking spikes are a lot worse to take when you know they can be used to intoxicate someone into having sex with you."

"But you wouldn't." Wesley forced Doyle to look at him. "Tell me, honestly, if you can see yourself doing what your father did."

"Yeah, sure, once I catch up with my shape shifting," Doyle said sarcastically. Then he sighed. "Of course not. But I'm physically able to."

"And I'm physically able to go out and play Jack the Ripper all over town if I wanted to, but I don't."

There was an unexpected mirth in Doyle's eyes, and within seconds he was laughing uncontrollably.

"Why is the thought that I might be capable of bad things so hilarious to everyone?" Wesley asked. He would have been a lot more upset about it if he hadn't been so relieved.

"Because you're Wesley," Doyle said, as if that explained everything.

"And you're Doyle. And you're a very good man - half man - and those ugly spikes of yours are really sexy."

"I know you think so," Doyle said, smirking a little. "Quite the little addict. And that's worrying me, too."

Wesley shrugged, because he knew Doyle wasn't more than half serious, and the main subject was still unresolved. Which was, he realised, the way it would stay. You didn't solve nearly thirty years of trouble with a nice afternoon chat.

"If it's any consolation, I believe in nurture over nature. And that seems to have worked out for you."

"Well, yeah." Doyle flashed a sudden smile. "I'll give you that. No money, of course, particularly after da died, but there's no denying I've had good nurture."

Wesley smiled, giving Doyle a light peck on the temple. "Do you know who you are most like, though?" he asked.

"Mum", Doyle said without hesitation.

Wesley shook his head. "Judith."

Doyle stopped short. "That's not true."

"It is. I mean, you don't hug people as much as she does..."

"Actually, I do, just not when you're around. Thought you preferred it that way."

Wesley stared at Doyle for a split second, and then smacked him in the back of his head. He got a mischievous grin as reward.

"Did you talk to your sister?" Doyle asked.

After everything that had been said since, it felt like a lifetime ago, but Wesley nodded. "I did. She seemed..." He sought a good word. "Actually, I'm not quite sure what she seemed. But I'll be seeing her tomorrow, I suppose I'll find out then."

He held Doyle's shoulders, without caring who might see. This was his last opportunity not to care, tomorrow he'd be in Manchester and back to the lying and pretending from his younger days.

"I wish you could come with me."

Doyle kissed him, very softly.

"Who doesn't?"

**********

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