1.

The Lone Bar had seen better days.

Only a few patrons graced the establishment with their presence this Sunday evening. The lazy movements of the fan on the bar did a poor job of dispersing the stale air of the room. Green letters, alight on the wall behind the ineffectual, oscillating appliance, announced that 'arlsberg' was available.

Slouching on the barstool, the hand propping Doyle's heavy head also pressed the flesh of his cheek upwards, making the skin around his right eye crinkle.

Wipe.

Swirl. Scrub.

Wipe.

The half-demon pondered the meanings of that word as he traced the zen-like movements of the bartender's hand. It was moving a dirty rag in circles across the once-polished wood surface of the bar. The varnish had long since been marred by rings of condensation from carelessly placed glasses, burns marks from cigarettes that had never quite made it to overflowing ashtrays and gouges of varying depth and breadth where claws of drunk or angry patrons had caught in clumsiness or frustration.

Doyle felt the urge to grab onto the bar himself, for support. The continued circular motions were making him queasy.

"Give us another one, will ya?" Unwilling to lose the few - well, several - drinks his hard-earned money had bought him, he managed the request through tightly clenched teeth.

The bartender's hand stilled - thank goodness! - but, to Doyle's dismay, it didn't fancy pouring the order. His eyes travelled up the length of the arm to the torpid, mutton-like face of the Tarish demon tending the bar.

"What?" the Irishman demanded. The answer he got came in the form of a sceptical frown from under meaty brows. Squirming internally, the memory of a similar look recently received from a demon a lot easier on the eyeballs prompted Doyle to include the plea: "You know I'm good for it?"

The bartender's scowl grew even more censorious but, finally, he complied. Another whiskey was set before the half-Brachen with a pointed thump. After realising that the hand supporting his head was closest to the drink, Doyle utilized the last of his reserves to almost right his spine and throw back the shot. While the amber liquid burned nicely on its way down, the accompanying Guinness performed more wonders for his earlier queasiness. Much could be said of The Lone Bar but at least they had decent beer.

Although, if he were being truthful - which, on occasion, had been known to happen - Doyle had to admit that his main reason for choosing this particular joint was his hopes of avoiding any fellow Messengers. They usually hung out at Elmo's, and he just hadn't been in the mood for their righteous babble about how the Powers didn't favour him, saddling him with "a vampire Warrior, of all things". The half-demon was actually pretty fed up with said Warrior himself, right at the moment.

"Blasted vampire should just keep that Greek God nose of his out of other people's business. Who does he think he is, anyway?" was muttered low enough to be heard only by Doyle's trusted Guinness. Even if the Tarish did raise a curious eyebrow in his direction.

The half-demon ignored the bartender and took another swig.

He had been sure that Cordelia's gratitude for the flat he'd procured her would last a good, long while. But no, it had to be haunted. And why couldn't Angel just have dealt a little more. permanently with Griff the first time around instead of letting the Kaliff go so that he could come back for Doyle later. With reinforcements.

What was the point of being so bloody noble if you ended up having to kill the fella anyway.

The incident hadn't exactly improved his chances with the fair Cordelia. To think what harsh words such beautiful lips could form. There should be a law against that. If only those pretty eyes of hers would just once regard him with an ounce of the hero-worship the half-demon had sometimes seen Cordy behold an unsuspecting Angel with. Several times during their association Doyle had feared the competition of the apparently unmoved vampire. For a few panicked minutes on Wednesday morning he had been devastated at the thought that his boss had blindsided him, beating him to the chase.

"Heh, nice pun, that." Doyle snickered into his glass, displacing the thick layer of foam. They sure did know how to pour a beer in this place. An attempt to use his tongue to remove a bit of the fluffy substance momentarily sidetracked him when it escaped the glass and landed on his nose. The foam removal completed to his satisfaction, he jumped back onto his earlier train of thought.

Which was.? Oh, yeah. Lamenting his fate as Messenger for some tight-arsed vamp who was far too handsome for his own good. That aforementioned morning, Doyle had been extremely relieved to discover that said vamp had been completely immune to the effect Cordy's looks had on ordinary folks. And vice versa.

Unfortunately, that immunity seemed to extend to Doyle as well.

Life did indeed suck.

"Don't let me see your scrawny ass in here again until you've got some green comin' my way! And don't think I'm scared of some friggin' vamp you might send after me, either!"

The back door of The Lone Bar slammed shut.

Pressing one hand against the alley wall, Doyle picked himself up slowly and allowed his vision time to adjust to the dimly lit surroundings. His shoulder hurt from being rammed against the large dumpster opposite the exit. He supposed he should be grateful the Tarish had decided to just throw him out instead of making him pay what he owed the hard way.

The half-Brachen rolled his head clockwise, then counter-clockwise on his shoulders in what he feared would ultimately be a futile attempt to prevent the stiffness from spreading to his neck. He could already feel a headache beginning. As he rested his head on the steadying arm, the sleeve of his grubby tan leather jacket received the mumbled confession of "'s'gonna be the mother of all hangovers."

Somewhat wobbly from the blow and the drinks, Doyle began his sojourn toward the front of the bar. He didn't really know how he was going to pay for a cab but he was confident he could think of something. The relatively cool, relatively fresh night air was sobering him up a little. And wasn't that just typical, after all he'd gone through to get drunk.

Ah well, the night was still young enough to try again in another bar. Maybe he'd brave the ridicule of his peers and give Elmo's a go.

"Still have a bit of credit there," the half-demon mumbled, a plan slowly forming in his rattled brain.

Finally, he emerged from the alley. Plenty of cars but, of course, no cabs in sight.

Doyle sighed. "Feet, meet pavement."

Meandering too closely to the curb, hoping against hope that a cab would magically show up, the sounds of a nearby scuffle reached his ears from up ahead. And weren't there just too many dark alleys in L.A. The Irishman's curiosity got the better of him, though, and he decided to risk a peep around the corner.

Nothing. The narrow space between two cinderblock buildings made a sharp left turn a few yards down, making it impossible for him to see what was going on. He shot a furtive look around to make sure there were no people in sight before deciding to let his Brachen heritage work in his favour for a change. Doyle allowed the blue spikes to surface onto his face and took a big whiff of the night air.

He regretted it instantly. What a stench! Had to be a Vas'reen. No other beings - well, apart from slime demons - smelled that bad.

Concentrating, he managed to block out the God-awful stink of the Vas'reen long enough to identify the species of the unlucky bastard fighting it. Human. Sweet Jesus, from what Doyle knew of Vas'reen demons, it would most likely rip the poor bloke's head off, not to mention a few limbs if he'd pissed it off enough.

Reverting to his human form, supremely relieved he was not the one fighting the huge demon, Doyle shook his head in sad regret as he began moving on. Probably wouldn't last long against the Vas'reen, that fella, unless he was really well-equipped. Like with a rocket launcher. Or maybe, Doyle grinned to himself, one of those wicked-looking axes that Angel-

He froze.

Urgh! That bugger of a vampire was like his guilty conscience personified.

Those black orbs of Angel's had a way of seeing right through Doyle and the half-demon knew that no matter how he might apologise or try to explain, the weight of the disappointment reflected in them would crush his words before he ever managed to draw the breath to utter his excuse.

"So what if the Vas'reen is three times as big and ten times as strong," Doyle grumped.

Although, being out-numbered or out-strengthened never seemed to make a difference for Angel.

The glare of headlights illuminated Doyle from behind. He swivelled - ooh! bad idea! - in time to see a cab turning onto Santa Monica, heading his way. There was his chance.

.and there it went. Doyle could not believe he had purposely let it pass. Quickly scanning the area, he narrowed down his choice of potential weapons to a piece of cardboard, a two foot length of rust-encrusted pipe, and a few soggy pages of newspaper.

His arse was going to get so severely kicked.

Mentally cursing his vampire saint of a boss, Doyle picked up the pipe and charged.

2.

Wesley's feet ached.

Tracking a Tarogian fiend across most of Southern California was not conducive to one's health, especially if said fiend were not found before mating season began. In the hope that the Tarogian could be dealt with at a safe distance the former Watcher had brought his handheld crossbow, concealing it in the small canvas bag slung cross-torso over his left shoulder. One of the things he still could take pride in - and Lord knew there were precious few these days - was his expert marksmanship.

The contact he had met at The Bull and Whistle - the most sorry excuse for an English pub he had yet seen in America - had told him that the Tarogian had a lair "couple o' blocks down Santa Monica" where it was "gettin' ready for some action" (this last bit accompanied by a suggestive waggle of bushy eyebrows). Wesley, in his naivety, had thought that those couple of blocks would do nicely for a brisk walk to get the greasy meal he had ingested out of his system.

Now, however, he understood why Angelenos seemed to drive everywhere.

Eyes on the pavement, Wesley absently wondered whether he would be avoiding the cracks as scrupulously had the saying concerned the other parent. A clattering in the narrow side street just passed shook him out of his musings. Verifying his position according to his contact's information, he decided that he might very well have stumbled upon the Tarogian's lair. Or, perhaps a cat.

"Still," he said softly, "best investigate." Though he was no longer officially a Watcher, the duty he had sworn to uphold had become no less sacred these last few months than it had been to him while in the Council's employ.

Even so, he much preferred the noisemaker to be just a cat.

Gingerly, Wesley made his way down the passage, darkness pressing in on him as he progressed. Round the bend of grimy walls, peering into the now near-impenetrable gloom, it struck him how ominously quiet his surroundings had become.

A little gust of wind, and suddenly the Englishman's nostrils were invaded by the foulest stench he had ever had the displeasure of inhaling. He snorted in a vain attempt to expunge the horrid smell. At the first rumbling that followed, he thought it might be his stomach rebelling against his earlier meal. The noise intensified and Wesley realised with sudden dread that it came from behind him rather than from within.

Not for the first time since arriving in America, Wesley felt like he was living a bad horror movie clich,. Fumbling to get his miniature crossbow out of the bag, he turned. The weapon almost slipped from his near-nerveless grip when he saw the creature: a gigantic, shaggy thing that effectively blocked his escape from the narrow passage. 'Vas'reen' his Watcher-trained mind automatically supplied after cataloguing the demon's size, pelt, nastily sharp-looking claws, and horrendous smell.

The demon's indignant roar jolted Wesley into action. He brought his weapon to bear, amazed at the relative steadiness of his aim. The steadiness didn't have much effect, though, as the Vas'reen, with a powerful swipe, sent the crossbow sailing collision-course towards a brick wall, reducing it to little more than cinders on impact. Then, reversing the momentum, the demon backhanded him across the face, turning his head with the force of the blow.

Wesley couldn't help but admire the creature's efficiency: with a single move it had disarmed him, numbed his weapons hand (fool's luck that it wasn't taken clean off) and left his head ringing while he hadn't even managed to fire a single shot.

One thing his tenure on the Hellmouth had taught Wesley, however, was to always bring a spare. Awkwardly digging into the canvas bag with his still somewhat palsied right hand he managed to procure a Cerudian ceremonial blade - salvaged from the fight at his former Slayer's graduation and in remarkable condition. He never had the opportunity to use it at the time, being knocked out and utterly useless about half a minute into the fight while the high school basketball team and the aforementioned Slayer's vampire ex-boyfriend (for pity's sake!) helped save the day in his stead.

The Vas'reen advanced on him, backing him further up towards the passage's dead-end. Wesley brandished the Cerudian dagger with hearty menace, despite it probably seeming about as threatening as a banana. Being underestimated by a foe could be an advantage, he admonished himself and with that in mind he actually managed to nick the demon's arm with his precious blade.

Take that, demon! A more-than-slightly hysterical laugh bubbled out of him as adrenaline made Wesley imagine that getting out of the fight with just the few scrapes he had acquired and the Vas'reen's head as trophy might be a real possibility.

Reality, however, always had the unpleasant ability to set in when Wesley wanted it the least. Smashing his fantasies with uncouth disregard, the huge demon easily dodged the feeble defence - fencing never was your strong suit was it, old boy? - and another attack of those deadly paws made quick work of his weapon.

The clang of metal against brickwork that rang out seemed to Wesley like a bell tolling his defeat for the world to hear. He couldn't help an internal sneer amidst the terror: lovely, Wyndam-Pryce, let's add over-dramatising to your list of faults, shall we?

Sagging against the back wall of an old warehouse, the Englishman desperately forced his terrified brain to come up with something - anything - that would allow him to distract the Vas'reen, giving him at least a sporting chance of getting past it and out of this ordeal alive. Unfortunately, his brain was not cooperating. No wonder the Council sacked him.

Then, just as the Vas'reen stepped forward to, no doubt, rip his head off, a figure came charging down the alley, roaring a wordless battle cry and wildly swinging a weapon with both hands. Just wonderful. Was every demon in Los Angeles out to kill him? Well, then he would most assuredly go out fighting.

Blind luck rather than anything resembling skill allowed Wesley to land a kick to the distracted Vas'reen's knee, momentarily disrupting its balance (and no doubt hurting his foot considerably more than the demon's joint).

He turned towards the new threat, balling his fists.

"Not me, you eejit! I'm here to help!"

The indignant Irish tones stayed Wesley's hand mere inches before colliding with their source. He let his still half-numb arm fall and managed to push out a breathless "Oh, thank heavens!" as the newcomer delivered a blow to the surprised Vas'reen with what Wesley recognised as a length of pipe. Profound relief washed over the former Watcher; he might yet live to see daylight.

But, as the fight wore on, his hopes soon plummeted to more familiar abysmal territory.

The element of surprise had provided Wesley with a few seconds to catch his much needed breath. Still, he was weaponless and his new ally was not making very effective use of his rusty pipe.

Much to his dismay, Wesley was faced with accepting that the stranger was almost as bad a fighter as he himself. As if confirming his thoughts, the large demon easily fended off a glancing blow from the stranger's pipe and returned the gesture with another great swipe of an arm that sent the newcomer flying into the large dustbin lining one wall.

Wesley scrambled after the length of pipe, unwilling to give up on their only remaining means of defence. His fingers, slick with sweat, almost slipped, but the grains of rust acted as an adhesive and he managed to get a grip on the weapon. Panting, he made a stand beside his groggy Samaritan and faced the Vas'reen.

"Back, fiend!" The Englishman waved the pipe at the demon with all the virile menace he could summon. The Vas'reen did not seem intimidated.

A pained groan emerged. "Anyone catch the number on that truck?" the stranger mumbled as he struggled to stand.

Wesley risked sparing his companion a glance and an arm up while fending off the enraged Vas'reen. But the demon pressed its advantage in a most unsportsmanlike way and, for the third time that evening, succeeded in knocking the Englishman's weapon from his hands.

Things were, to be blunt, not going their way.

As the enormous demon advanced, intent upon finishing the fight once and for all, Wesley suddenly saw that - unsuccessful as it may have been - the surprise attack had after all accomplished one thing: namely turning the fight around so the Vas'reen was now facing the sharp turn before the mouth of the alley. Which meant-

"I believe," the former Watcher confided to his would-be rescuer, "that discretion, at this point, would be- " Narrowly avoiding a blow that would surely have taken his head off, he managed to choke out, "-the better part of valour."

The stranger, still shaky, turned towards him. His face was the very image of perfect incomprehension. "Huh?"

Wesley grabbed the sleeve of the other man's grubby jacket and hurled him towards the mouth of the alley. "Let's run!"

And so they did.

3.

"Doncha-"

"-think-"

"-we lost it-"

"-already?"

Sagging against the large window of 'Leo's Stuff' that claimed the ability to provide 'Everything You Never Knew You Always Wanted', Doyle desperately wheezed for his breath. He was just not cut out for this hero stuff. A gruesome fight followed by a daring escape were not things that should be engaged in after consuming liberal amounts of alcohol. And he'd only stopped smoking half a year ago.

Wesley's breathing, though laboured, was not nearly as ragged as his companion's. Must be all that practise from running away 'screaming like a woman' as Buffy had once so charmingly put it. The cheek of that girl. The former Watcher removed his glasses and reached into the pocket of his newly acquired leather jacket for a handkerchief.

"The Vas'reen," he began, inwardly wincing to hear his lecture tone firmly in place yet unable to stop himself, "are an ancient breed of warrior demons, native to the jungles of the Yucatan Peninsula. As their habitats have been steadily decimated over the past thirty years or so they have migrated North - discovering the possibilities of America, as it were." The lenses polished to his satisfaction, Wesley reapplied his spectacles. With hands still somewhat shaky with exhaustion and not-quite-conquered fear, he continued, "Fortunately, their large bulk allows for feats of strength, rather than endurance. If not, I'm afraid we would have fared very ill, indeed."

The other man did not look impressed at the speech. He cocked his head, amusement crinkling the skin around his eyes. "A Brit, are ya?"

Wesley's embarrassed grin made him appear years younger. "Quite." The Irishman's answering smile prompted him to offer his hand and a self-introduction, "Wesley. What say we find the pub where I abandoned my transportation and have a pint to celebrate our survival?"

Doyle joined his hand with the Englishman's. "Francis. And I never have been one to turn down a free drink." His smile widened. "Lead the way. "

The remaining patrons of The Bull and Whistle gave the two men a wide berth. The sour-looking waitress scrunched up her nose in distaste and departed the instant she had unloaded her foamy burdens.

Doyle didn't mind. The isolation ensured that he and Wesley could talk without having to worry about strange looks in their direction. Other than the ones they received for their somewhat scruffy appearances, of course. A beer once more within his grasp and a bruise slowly, but surely, blossoming on his cheek, Doyle settled as comfortably as the booth's hard Naugahyde seat allowed and gave in to his curiosity. "How come you know so much about demons?"

The former Watcher cast a suspicious glance at his companion. Reassured by the look of sincere interest in the clear blue eyes, he explained, "I studied the subject for several years. Actually, it's how I came to be here in America. It was my job. My life, really. And then, when the position didn't work out, my employers they-" Wesley's spirits sank and he gazed into his glass as if hoping to find an explanation where there was nothing but "-they just abandoned me."

Doyle studied the melancholy Englishman. "So, now you're what, a rogue demon hunter?"

"Well. yes. I suppose I am." Wesley perked up a bit as he mentally tested the flavour of the exotic moniker and found it to his liking. Watcher instincts returning to the fore, he couldn't resist asking, "Tell me, how did you become involved with-" leaning across the table, he finished in a conspiratorial whisper, "-the Underworld?"

Doyle gave a short bark of laughter. "Well, see, that's sort of a funny story, really."

"Indeed?" Wesley's curiosity was piqued, not least by the slight note of bitterness that had crept into the Irishman's otherwise jovial voice.

"This life kinda picked me more'n the other way around," Doyle confided. "I mean, if it were up to me I'd be enjoying a cruise to the Bahamas, sipping pia colada with the dark-haired goddess of my dreams right about now."

At this, the Englishman smiled. He could think of a dark-haired goddess who he himself might not be adverse to sharing a chilled drink with.

His demeanour turning more serious, even though he kept the tone of his voice light, Doyle elaborated, "Anyhow, I got this assignment from the higher-ups a couple of months back. And not the kind you can say no to either, if you know what I mean. Had to hook up with a new fella in town, a real Spartan by all accounts. Y'know, all single-minded and on-a-mission-like."

The Irishman took a hearty guzzle of his pint, swirling the beer around in his parched mouth before his desensitised taste buds registered what he was drinking. He grimaced in distaste and declared, "This is utter shite."

Wesley grinned and nodded in agreement, "Not quite like back home, I know. But it's also cheap. And beggars, as I'm sure you know, can't be choosers."

"Sad, but true, my friend," Doyle agreed. He steeled himself before downing another gulp. "Sad, but true."

"So, you were assigned to this newcomer?" Wesley prompted, wisely only using his own beer for grasping.

As the other man leaned further over the table, ready to take in the story, Doyle's imagination replaced the beer clutched in the young Englishman's grip with a notebook, pencil hovering above it, almost trembling with eagerness to take down his tale for posterity. Shaking the image out his head, the half-Brachen continued, "Right. Thing was, Spartan had a dark past - dark as in 'pitch' - and a real nasty rep to go with it, so I wasn't exactly overjoyed at the prospect, as you might imagine."

The Irishman paused, his gaze slipping off Wesley and into the not-so-distant past. A small smile appeared on his lips, more careful and yet to the former Watcher also more sincere than his earlier jovial grins.

"Turns out, he wasn't as bad as all that after all."

Wesley was loath to interrupt the other man's musings, but couldn't help an almost breathless "How so?"

"Well, he can be dismal as hell, but he's a great fighter. Great-lookin', too." Doyle grinned ruefully. "I swear, man, the ladies just fawn over him and he doesn't even notice. Plus, he's got this whole code of honour thing going on, but he can still be a real bad-arse when he needs to." He took another swig of his beer and choked it down. "I just barged in on his life and he let me, no - well, hardly any - questions asked. I really needed that at the time. And now..."

"Now...?" Wesley knew that if he leaned any further across the table he'd fall into Francis' lap. Still, he was fascinated.

"Now I help him help the hopeless." The Irishman smiled again, this time impishly. "Like you."

The former Watcher bristled, only partly in jest. "Now, look here-"

"Kiddin', man," Doyle assured, diffusing his insinuation. "Seriously, though," he amended, "he's the reason I came to your rescue in the first place. Half a year ago I woulda just walked right by and counted myself lucky it wasn't me getting thrashed by a Vas'reen."

"Really?"

"Don't get me wrong, there's still plenty of doom'n'gloom to go around with this bloke. But he's also... I dunno-" Once more the Irishman broke off eye contact along with his sentence, searching the air for an adequate way to describe what his employer meant to him. His startlingly blue eyes returned to bore into Wesley's as he finally settled on the words, "-an inspiration."

Wesley studied his companion. Quietly, he said, "He sounds like quite a man."

"He is," Doyle conceded. "He really is."

"This is your 'abandoned transportation'?"

Doyle stared at the Harley Davidson motorcycle in awe. Its chrome gleamed in the light of the neon sign on the pub's facade and the halogen street lamps nearby. The smell of its new rubber mixed pleasantly with the faint, salty air of the Pacific.

Once more, an embarrassed smile graced Wesley's face. "Yes, well, it seemed the most sensible choice at the time."

"Sensible, my arse!" Doyle exclaimed, running a reverent hand over the supple leather seat. "Wes, this thing is a bird-magnet if ever I saw one." He jokingly nudged his slightly pink companion and pleaded, "Sure I can't borrow it for a spell? There's bird I know that could use some magnetizing in my direction."

Mustering somberness, Wesley faced his companion. "I would like to thank you, Francis."

The sincerity in the Englishman's expression made Doyle uncomfortable. Sensing what Wesley was about to say, he jested, "What for? Saving your life by getting knocked down by the Vas'reen, thus allowing you to save mine instead?" He breathed an internal sigh of relief when a smile broke out on the other man's face.

"Something like that," Wesley acceded. Francis's muffled belch reminded the former Watcher how many more tasteless pints the Irishman had downed during their hour-long conversation, prompting him to ask, "Will you be alright getting home?"

The other man shrugged. "As long as I'm not struck by anymore heroic impulses along the way, I should be fine."

"Are you sure?" Wesley couldn't help but prod.

"Hey, I'm not the one with the Easy Rider complex that needs sortin' out," Doyle grinned. 'Sides, I've got a friend close by who'll let me crash at his place."

Wesley nodded, reassured. "Right." He slightly tugged up the legs of his trousers before straddling his bike. "I suppose I'll be off, then."

"Yeah," Doyle said, surprised at his wistfulness. "See ya 'round?" Their eyes met for a moment of mutual understanding and, for an instant, they allowed themselves the friendship that might have been.

Then, Wesley smiled. "One never knows." With a kick, the motorcycle roared to life. After donning his helmet, he manoeuvred out of the parking lot and into the late night traffic, sparing a last glance and a small wave at the other man.

Doyle cocked his head and squinted at the swiftly disappearing rider. The leather jacket was not a bad look for the Englishman, he decided; but the ensemble would look more complete with a pair of matching trousers. Maybe some like the ones he'd found rummaging through Angel's stuff while waiting for him to show up that night he first confronted the vampire.

He wondered why Angel never wore them. Such a shame, really. They'd smelled brand new, never-worn.

The half-demon shook himself out of his reverie. He seriously needed to start concentrating on Cordelia full-time. Maybe she had a secret pair of leather trousers...

4.

"Angel, man. You up?" Doyle banged on the heavy door with the heel of his hand. "Angel?"

Silence.

It occurred to the half-demon that Angel might not have come home from the night's slaying yet. It wasn't that late, really - a thought which swiftly segued into cursing the ridiculously early Californian '2 AM last call'.

Doyle's jumbled thoughts were interrupted when first the latch, and then the metal door itself slid aside to reveal the vampire. Clad only in a pair of black drawstring pants, Angel's bare shoulder rested against the doorsill. Squinting into the fluorescent half-light leaking into the apartment from the underground parking garage and with his dark hair uncharacteristically out of control, he should have looked a fright.

How was it, Doyle mused enviously, that someone who had just been dragged out of bed after an evening of slaying, no doubt, numerous Hellish fiends, could still look so fine?

Hang on. "You were sleeping? Already?"

Angel's attempted one-word explanation of "Cordelia." only succeeded in widening Doyle's eyes and creating all sorts of unpleasant images he had thought finally put to rest until the vampire expanded his statement with, "Audition?"

"Oh, right! The early one. EZ Kleen, 6 o'clock sharp, Santa Ana." The half-demon released the breath that had caught in his throat seconds earlier. His mouth melted into a sly smile. "I remember her shanghai'ing you for that one."

The vampire's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. Doyle hurriedly changed the subject. "I kinda need a favour."

Angel breathed in the half-demon's bruised and scruffed state. "Not another Kaliff demon, I take it."

"No! I just-"

Wishing his could swallow his embarrassment as easily as he had his words, Doyle ducked his head in an attempt to hide his reddening cheeks. His drunken state slowed his acknowledgement of the fact that hiding his face would not make his blush any less detectable to the vampire.

As nervous as one of his former elementary students standing in front of the principal, Doyle struggled to make sense. "Well, there was this demon - not a Kaliff, mind - and it wasn't about money, I swear! I just. sorta ended up a whole lot closer to your place than mine and since my funds were runnin' a bit low I kinda figured. Well, y'know."

Trailing off, he finally gathered the courage to raise his eyes to meet Angel's, only to find the half-lidded brown orbs glinting with amusement. One corner of the vampire's mouth hiked upwards before his lips parted in "Sure."

Turning on his heel, Angel sure-footedly made his way through the dark apartment. In passing he flipped a switch, turning on a single, small lamp in the alcove adjacent to the bedroom.

Doyle slid the metal door closed and leaned wearily against it, pursing his lips and exhaling relief. Steeling himself with the thought that rest was finally within his grasp, the Irishman pushed off and trailed uncertainly after Angel towards the illuminated doorway. Doyle silently debated whether the vampire had turned on the light to spare his employee's shins or his own furniture. With a grin, he decided it was probably a little of both.

Upon entering the dimly lit room, Doyle could just make out the intricate tattoo shifting across Angel's shoulder blade. The vampire's movements had an aquatic quality to them - fluid and muted - as one pale arm drifted through the air, closing the bottom drawer of the mahogany chest with care, and the other secured a sheet and a blanket in the crook of an elbow. Long legs slowly unfurled beneath him and he rose gracefully, turning on the balls of his feet to face his Seer.

The half-demon, torn from his fascination of shadow and light playing on ivory skin, raised his guileless blue gaze to his host's face. "So... Where d'ya want me?"

"Here." Angel's free hand swept over the bed; palm up, long fingers slightly curled.

Surprised, Doyle pointed his chin at the bundle under the vampire's arm. "But, the sheets-"

"Are for me. You take the bed."

Exhaustion overriding any politeness to protest the offer, Doyle gratefully began littering the bedroom floor with several puddles - of scuffed shoes, a battered leather jacket, and a frayed and slightly bloodied polyester shirt.

Angel ghosted past him towards the door. Then, abruptly, he stopped, one hand catching the doorframe, the near-transparency of his fingers becoming stained with the darkness of the wood as the doorjamb groaned under the force of his grip. Slowly twisting at the waist to look back, the vampire cocked his head at his puzzled guest.

Shadows cut across the vampire's face, making it difficult for Doyle to discern his expression.

"Something wrong?" the half-demon enquired, halting his not-so-teasing strip.

Angel's nostrils flared and he suppressed a grimace. Vas'reen demon coupled with alcohol-laced sweat was not going to make a pleasant mattress sachet. Plus, there was another scent mixing with Doyle's - something very faint and faintly familiar.

Human. Almost like. Sunnydale?

The vampire shook his head sharply, dismissing the unpleasant thoughts that arose with the name. Darkening the room with a flick of a switch, Angel's disembodied voice floated towards Doyle. "Get some sleep."

His eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom only broken by the meagre streetlight that seeped through the high pavement-level windows in the next room, the half-demon briefly considered the possible reasons for what could have set off his employer this time. Then, resigning himself to the fact that he would probably never understand the strange and warped workings of the vampire's mind, he resumed his undressing. Fumbling, despite lingering drunkenness and the fatigue permeating his very bones, he managed to remove his socks and trousers before tumbling onto the bed. Burrowing into the soft goose-down pillows, Doyle quickly pulled up the covers to shut out the chill of the sub-level apartment.

He was surprised, at first, at the bed's lack of warmth considering how recently it had been vacated. Then, a knowing smile twisted his lips. He should have expected the tepidity of the sheets.

Doyle closed his eyes, tired beyond reason. After he'd slept for the rest of the month, he'd drag the mattress up to the roof and let it air out. A few moments later, he let out an exasperated groan. His shoulder ached, his head throbbed, his legs felt like lead and yet he couldn't lie still. To top it all off, his tongue had begun to feel as if a fungus were developing on it.

He tried to soothe himself with a little fantasy of the fair Cordelia finally yielding to his ample, yet unpretentious, charms. He could see her now, gliding towards him. That dark fragrant hair cascading down her back, those hazel eyes, that beautiful mouth, those long - and yes, very shapely - legs.

Immersed in the vision, so much more pleasant than the ones the Powers saw fit to bestow upon him - and a lot less painful it was, too - Doyle took a deep breath, sure that the milk-and-honey essence of his dream girl would complete his little fantasy.

His eyes snapped open, all Cordelian imaginings gone as the jab of mint, the musky scent of leather, and the coppery undercurrent of blood rifled through his senses instead. Bloody vampire just wouldn't leave him alone.

Sighing, he rolled onto his back, unable to escape the olfactory invasion. He stared up at the ceiling he was unable to see in the darkness.

Sleep was going to be a long time coming.

END

Back