”Alcohol makes me sober. After a few gulps of brandy I stop thinking about you.”
--Marguerite Yourcenar
The Host was browsing through the bar, keeping check of everything. On the stage a young woman was stammering through ABBA with a loud voice. ”You hear her voice everywhere, taking a chair, she’s a leading lady...” It didn’t take clairvoyance to know that was more wishful thinking than anything else.
”Lorne?” It was one of the regulars, coming up with a drink in his hand and a frown on his face. ”There’s a half-breed freaking out in your store room. Thought you might want to know.”
”Oh. Okay, I’ve got it covered. Don’t you worry about it.” The Host started walking towards the store room, but without any hurry, since he already knew what he was going to find.
Doyle was sitting on the floor with his knees under his chin, violently rocking. His lips were moving, but his voice was too low to hear. The Host sat down next to him, holding his shoulders.
”Easy now, sweetheart, take a breath. In... out... can you do that? In... out...”
It took a while before Doyle obeyed and stopped the mutterings.
”Feeling better now?”
It was barely more than a whisper: ”I’m going mad.”
”On the contrary. You’re going better. I saw your future once.”
Doyle turned away. ”Did you see why I didn’t die with the others?”
”Their fates aren’t in your future. What happened to them isn’t your responsibility. You did all you could, and now some people get to live.”
”Suddenly everyone’s a philosopher.” Doyle stood up, leaning against the wall to help the dizziness.
The Host didn’t let this bother him. ”Take tonight off. Be with your man for a while.”
Simply nodding, Doyle pushed through the crowd to get to the front door. Rudeness had nothing to do with it. Stumbling forwards, he bumped into a young blonde, who dropped her purse to the floor. The belongings scattered all over, and she gave an irritated ”hey!”.
”Sorry.” Still shaking, he bent down anyway to help her pick things up, putting make-up and money back where it belonged. She looked at him with suspicion mixed with concern.
”Hey, you don’t look so good. You’d better go out before you heave.”
”Yeah.” And he was out on the street, walking the way home with steps that hurried more and more. There was no fear, but there was longing, and he fumbled with the lock to the apartment, wanting to get in as quickly as possible to rub away this feeling.
Wesley wasn’t there. Doyle turned on the light and stood there in the hallway for a minute, just looking around. Then he proceeded into the living room and brought a bottle of whiskey from the bookshelf. Sitting down on the sofa, he took from his pocket the one thing that he hadn’t returned to the blonde’s purse.
A few hours after midnight, Wesley unlocked the door to his apartment and was stunned to find the lights on. He clearly remembered that Doyle had said he’d be working all night, and even if Doyle’s hours were irregular, they weren’t quite irregular enough to make four hours qualify as all night.
He took off his jacket and went inside, calling out Doyle’s name without getting any response. Halfway into the living room he stopped, and for a second he smiled in relief. Doyle was lying on the sofa, sleeping heavily. Poor man, he must have been exhausted. On the coffee table lay a bottle of whiskey, which was hardly unexpected.
Wesley sat down in a chair, just watching him. Then his relief slowly disappeared as he remembered that this was not how Doyle slept. Even drunk he would toss and turn in bed, muttering incomprehensible phrases most of the time. Now he was just lying there motionless.
Wesley left his chair and rushed forward, afraid of what he might find. But Doyle was breathing, if slowly, and Wesley shook him to get some response. Nothing happened. Wesley started to panic, holding Doyle’s unconscious body next to him while he pondered his options. Ambulance. He had to call an ambulance.
Somehow the woman on the phone managed to extract name and location from his meaningless babble, and before long he was surrounded by nice people in uniforms telling him to take it easy.
”Has anything like this ever happened before?”
He shook his head. He should be able to stay calm. Life and death situations were everyday stuff for him, after all. But it was impossible. ”I just came home and there he was. I knew he was drunk, but...”
”I found this,” another of the paramedics said, handing the first one a small box. ”Prescribed to a Helen Rossi.”
”Is he in the habit of taking Valium?” The man’s eyes were kind.
Wesley’s thoughts raced away to Doyle’s initial story. ”Yes, but...” But what? Not recently? As far as he knew, Doyle hadn’t taken anything but alcohol during the time they had spent together, but then again, he’d learned an ”ask not” policy quick enough.
”Harry, get over here!” The paramedics started throwing numbers at each other that meant nothing to Wesley, but they were obviously unexpected.
”What? That’s not humanly possible!”
A warning bell rang in Wesley’s head, but he didn’t have time to think about it. They were carrying out Doyle, and he had to be there, to see what was happening. He stayed by the stretcher down all the stairs, and out onto the street, where people where gathered around the ambulance. During the ride, his thoughts were swirling around in his head, and it wasn't until they reached the hospital and Doyle was taken out of sight that he suddenly found himself being completely calm.
He had to call Angel. The paramedics had suspected something, and in retrospect it had probably not been a good idea to have Doyle taken to the hospital, where a non-human patient was likely to be Mr. Science project of the year. But what else was he supposed to do? Doyle could have died. Could still die. Could have wanted to die.
He pushed that thought away and dialled the number of the Hyperion. It took several signals before Angel answered, which was rare at this time of night.
”It’s Wesley. It seems Doyle has taken a large number of Valium pills and swallowed them down with alcohol. I called the hospital, but I’m beginning to think it wasn’t a good idea.” Angel’s voice in the other end became dead sharp and full of questions. ”Saint Peter’s. Will you please come here as soon as possible... and if you would call the others, I would be most grateful.”
He sat back down, hoping for some time to think, but he didn’t get it. A young man in a white coat -- nurse? intern? -- came up to him, asking questions.
”I’m Dr. Jackson. We’ve pumped his stomach, and it actually looks like he’s going to live. It appears his metabolism is... quite unique, really. The drugs are disappearing at an incredible rate.”
This was getting too close to be comfortable, but that didn’t matter compared to the glorious words ”going to live”, so Wesley simply nodded and waited for more.
”There are some things we need to know. What’s his name?”
”Doyle.” It helped to think about trivial things like that. The patient but clearly waiting look on Dr. Jackson’s face reminded him that they needed a first name as well. What on earth was it? ”Uhm... Francis, I think. Allen Francis Doyle.”
”Spelled A-l-a-n?”
Wesley shook his head. ”I have no idea. I’m sorry.”
”That’s quite all right. Date of birth?”
Again, Wesley shook his head. ”Early seventies, that’s all I can say.”
”Okay...” The doctor sighed and looked down his sheet of paper. ”Relatives?”
”His mother lives in Dublin. I don’t have her phone number.” He thought about that. ”I think Angel does, though.”
”Angel?”
”A friend... from work. I mean, I work with him. Doyle doesn’t.”
”He was found in his home, correct?”
”Yes... Our home. Yes.”
”Okay,” Dr. Jackson said again, this time in an almost cheerful note. He gave Wesley a sympathetic smile. ”Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
The words were reassuring, but the eagerness with which he hurried off wasn’t. Say that Doyle did live, what would happen then? Whatever it was, it probably wouldn’t include a quiet release from the hospital, no questions asked.
”Hey, English!” Gunn was the first to arrive, and dropped down in the next chair. He was clearly worried. ”What’s this I hear about Doyle... you know?”
”He mixed Valium and whiskey,” Wesley said, relieved to have other people there as well. Cordelia and Angel arrived right after Gunn. While Angel remained standing, looking as if he didn’t know whether to punch something or to cry, Cordelia sat down and threw her arms around Wesley. During all this, Gunn still tried to talk to him.
”But he’s been on Valium, right? I mean, it could be an accident.”
Wesley shook his head. He had hoped the same thing, but there was no doubt what the hospital people thought, and so he had to agree with them. ”The only reason he’s still alive is because his metabolism is ’unique’ somehow.” Slightly lower, he added, ”Demon side, I assume.”
”But he’s going to be okay?” Cordelia asked urgently, now sitting in the other adjoining seat with Wesley’s hand firmly between both of hers.
”They think so, yes.”
”Oh, thank God. Or the PTB, or whatever.”
”Who gave it to him?” Angel finally spoke, and his voice was fierce.
”The box said Helen Rossi,” Wesley replied calmly. ”And no, I don’t know who that is. I don’t even know why he was home.”
”Well, that shouldn’t be too hard to find out,” Gunn said, standing up. ”I’ll go call Lorne. You tell me if there’s any news, okay?”
A quarter of an hour later he returned, sitting down again.
”Well?” Angel, who’d been pacing around the room, now stopped. Wes and Cordy had looked up.
”He had an attack and Lorne sent him home,” Gunn replied. ”I also got hold of Helen Rossi, she’s a regular. Seems some guy bumped into her purse at the club yesterday. His description fits Doyle. And yeah, she’s missing some pills.”
Wesley sighed and shook his head, rubbing his forehead.
”How do you know she’s telling the truth?” Angel asked.
Gunn raised his eyebrows, but it was Wesley who answered. ”Doyle is a thief. After everything that has happened, he probably couldn’t resist.”
But he couldn’t help feeling angry with Doyle for not letting him know. Of everything he had worried about where Doyle was concerned, another suicide attempt wasn’t among them. Which just meant he had utterly missed the signs, if there had been any. And what kind of idiot would try to kill himself without giving any hints first? Of course, he had every reason to be depressed. And he had been dead, and obviously enjoyed it. There was no reason at all why Wesley should find this astonishing.
”What about her, where did she get it?” Angel still wouldn’t give up the need of someone to blame.
”Doctor?” Cordelia suggested. ”Newsflash, not illegal. My mother takes them.” She looked to Gunn for confirmation and he nodded.
”So what you’re saying is, this is Doyle’s own fault?”
”No, of course that’s not what we’re saying, it’s just...”
Wesley raised his head from his hands. ”Is this leading to anything? I mean, at all?” He was speaking politely, but that only seemed to shake them up the more. ”Whatever the reason, he’s in there. By choice, as it seems. Now, I don’t see how we can possibly... *revenge*... that.”
Nobody answered him, and so they sat around silently until once again a doctor showed up and gave them the usual you-can-go-in-now-but-one-at-a-time routine. After all their time fighting it was familiar territory. Without even looking around, Wesley stood up and followed the doctor to Doyle’s room.
And, thank God, he was awake. Looking like hell, of course, but he even managed to crack a smile. Wesley smiled back, although he was half anxious and half furious, and sat down next to him. ”You stupid bastard.”
Doyle grimaced. ”Not smart, I know.” He held out a hand, and Wesley took it, almost ready to punch him in the face.
”Not smart? You tried to kill yourself! You have my cell phone number, couldn’t you just have called me...” Wesley’s voice trailed away when he saw Doyle’s surprised expression. ”What?”
”Kill myself?”
”You didn’t try to kill yourself? It was an *accident*?” Wesley couldn’t believe it when Doyle nodded. ”Well, in that case, ’not smart’ is the least you can say. You would have been dead by now if it wasn’t for your demon metabolism.”
The smile on Doyle’s face was most definitely wicked now. ”Probably twenty times over.”
Wesley stared at him, and recalled how many times he had marveled at Doyle’s ability to pour down alcohol. Of course that would go for Valium too, and of course Doyle would know about it. ”Oh. I thought...”
”If I was to kill myself,” Doyle said, obviously with some effort, although he was still smiling, ”I wouldn’t take pills... like some girl.”
”Well, you mixed it out with whiskey,” Wesley pointed out, feeling ridiculously weak with relief. He was glad he was sitting down. ”And you’ve died before...”
Doyle closed his eyes, and Wesley wondered if he shouldn’t have said something. ”Was it... as good?”
A small nod from the dark head on the pillow.
”Do you wish...” He couldn’t get any further, and Doyle opened his eyes again. They looked even clearer in his weary face.
”I chose you to be mine.”
Wesley recalled a conversation from a long time ago. ”Your dad?”
Doyle shook his head impatiently and squeezed Wesley’s hand. ”No, stupid.”
”You mean me?” Wesley smiled as Doyle rolled his eyes to indicate ”obviously”.
For some reason, he felt pathetically happy, leaning down to stroke Doyle’s hair away from his face. ”And you.”
”May I have a word?”
A doctor stopped Wesley in the hall, and he braced himself, fearing what would come. ”Of course.”
”I understand you’re Mr. Doyle’s closest relation in America?”
Closest relation. Well, that was one way of putting it. ”Yes.”
”We have been running some tests...”
His entire body tensed at those very words. Here it came.
”Some of the results are unexpected. The EEG shows a synaptic disorder, but that’s... well, maybe not normal, but not entirely uncommon either.” The doctor searched Wesley’s face. ”Have you noticed any signs of mental problems?”
”Well, yes,” Wesley said, knowing the key to good lying was to remain as close to the truth as possible. ”Sometimes he gets hallucinations. But we’re aware of the problem, and he’s getting help. This was... a setback. That’s all.”
”He’s getting help?” the doctor asked. ”Really. That’s good.” He stood silent for a minute, stroking his chin. ”Since the only Allen Francis Doyle who fits his description hasn’t been in touch with any authority since 1996, when he was arrested for drunken disorderly. I’m just worried, that’s all.”
Damn. Obviously, they would do their homework extra carefully if Doyle’s demon side really did affect even his human body. But as long as he didn’t turn, maybe there was a way out of this. ”Well, I’ve only known him for a few months, I’m afraid I couldn’t tell...”
”His metabolism works at an exceptional rate, as I believe you’ve already been told. Also, he has an unusual blood type, or more accurately, unheard of.” He looked at Wesley with open curiosity. ”We have no idea what this means. Speculation is running high. One of the nurses,” he grinned in amusement, ”even claims she saw spines come out of his face. What we need to do is take some more tests, find out the truth behind these ridiculous rumours. Perhaps it can be of help to others.”
Wesley broke out in a cold sweat. ”I have no idea what you’re talking about. And besides, isn’t Doyle the one you should talk to? You’ll need his permission to run the tests, after all.”
”Yes. So far, he hasn’t been very cooperative. We hoped you would talk to him.”
Wesley nodded. Of course he would talk to Doyle. But it was unlikely to have the results the doctors intended.
Fortunately, once he had been taken to Doyle’s room, they were left alone. Thank God for hospital policy.
”Doyle?” Wesley sat down next to the bed, and Doyle shook his head slowly. He was sitting up in his bed, trying to get the IV out of his arm, but stopped by restraints. Wesley grasped his hand, hard. ”Doyle, can you hear me?”
Doyle struggled to get free, but nodded.
”Can you hear me?” Wesley repeated, knowing better than to trust a nod.
”Yeah. Get this thing off me.”
”Hold still.” Wesley took out the IV, trying not to hurt Doyle in the process. ”They’re suspecting something.”
”I know.” Doyle leaned back, relaxing considerably now that the IV was out. ”I have to get out of here.”
”Yes, but ’how’ would be a good question,” Wesley replied, keeping his voice low. ”As much as I would love to dress up in a white coat and roll you out in a wheelchair, I think somebody might be a bit suspicious.”
Doyle turned his head towards the window, which had a net of strong wire, but no proper bars. ”I could jump out.”
”You’re on the third floor, and there’s wire on the window.”
”I can do it in demon form.”
Wesley turned to look at the window as well. He had never seen any examples of Doyle’s demon strength, but he was well aware that it existed, just like he was well aware Doyle hated it. So if he was desperate enough to use it, who was Wesley to say no? ”Alright, if you think that’s a good idea.” He took away the restraints. ”Angel and Gunn have both left, but Cordelia is downstairs. What should I tell her?”
”To get the car ready and wait for me downstairs,” Doyle suggested, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He swayed a little, but managed to steady himself. ”I’ll be coming down in ten minutes or so. Pray nobody finds me too early.”
Wesley found the swaying a bit unnerving. ”Are you sure you’re up to this?”
Doyle gave him a don’t-baby-me-or-I’ll-beat-you-senseless sort of look and Wesley held his hands up in excuse, leaving the room.
Cordelia was down in the waiting room, reading a Cosmo magazine with an interest that couldn’t even be described as half-hearted. Her foot bobbed impatiently up and down, and the moment she saw Wesley entering she flew out of the low armchair with a speed that shouldn’t be possible from such an impractical position. ”Any news?”
”Some,” Wesley admitted. ”Can we step outside?”
They walked past the double doors and stopped on the lawn, where Cordelia listened carefully to what Wesley had to say and slapped him when he had finished. ”Are you out of your *mind*? Are both of you?”
”What’s the alternative? Leaving him here?”
She ignored that question. ”Like they won’t know something’s wrong if Doyle jumps out of a barred window on the third floor? They have your address, you know, all they have to do is show up at your doorstep.”
”Well, it’s not as if we had a choice.”
The debate was interrupted as the window broke and the wire net came flying through the air, setting off the alarms. Seconds later, Doyle landed on the lawn, green-faced and spiny as expected, and started running. Wesley grabbed Cordelia’s arm and pulled her with him. ”I suggest we save the objections until later.”
Once in the car, Doyle leaned back in his seat and turned human again. He looked absolutely beat, and Wesley, sitting down next to him, suspected he had taken out more strength than he really had to spare on that short run. There was no time to think about that now. Cordy jumped in the front and took them away, as calmly as possible without actually going slow. ”Any ideas on an address they don’t have?” she asked sarcastically.
”Go back to the Hyperion,” Doyle replied. His eyes were closed, but he spoke clearly, and she shrugged, turning the car. Wesley’s reaction was more complex. The Hyperion was a safe place, that was true, but it was also a place Doyle had been very eager to leave. And he had to admit that the thought of moving in there didn’t much strike his fancy either. He would miss the privacy, the knowledge that it was just the two of them in a silent apartment --- and of course, the ability to have sex without any form of interruptions. Then again, as he had told Cordelia, it wasn’t as if they had any choice.
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