”It’s not very hard to be brave if you’re not afraid.”
--Tove Jansson
Angel browsed through the mail, wearing an expression that would have crowned him the King of Gloom, had anyone been there to see it. But it was eleven AM on a beautiful day, and as Cordy had put it before striding out the front door, there were limits to how much work you could do before you became pathetic. And they had deserved some time off after all. It had been a slow week, and the aftereffects from the drug trade had started to wear off. Not that it would last. Sooner or later someone would go ”hey, have you tasted goblin eyeballs in cocaine?” and experiments would start again. But at least this time there would be somewhere to turn when things went bad. People were actually cooperating on this, and those who always had been in the fight found themselves with new allies.
And yet he couldn’t get over the thought of failure, and what for? The inability to make sure none of this happened in the first place? The fact that even without being there, those people were still destroying Doyle, and there was nothing anyone could do about that?
Of course, while the guys had been living at the Hyperion, Angel had done his best, and although Doyle had been a whole lot more polite than last time, it was a relief for all involved when they moved into a small flat above Caritas. The Host had been very helpful, but then there was a fair amount of friendship involved.
At the moment, though, Wesley and Doyle were out catching sun, just like Gunn and Cordelia. Wesley had promised to show up later, but at the moment Angel was alone, and he wasn’t feeling as pleased as he thought he should. Instead there was something resembling pouting as he opened the envelopes one by one. Most of them were typed. When Cordy was around she always opened the handwritten ones first, since they were more likely to offer money than demand it. Angel just opened them as they came along. And so it took a few bills until he reached the small envelope with his name and address scribbled in a large, round hand. Opening it, he found another scribbled note, and a folder. All the note said was, *Thought you might be interested. I’ve deserted the job, so you haven’t heard from me. The Pythia.*
Funny, he had thought it wasn’t possible to stop being a Pythia once you had begun. Maybe that was why it was so vital that he hadn’t heard from her. Funny that she wrote now, when there had been no sign from her during these past months. Putting the note aside he looked at the folder, a bright coloured thing with the words Shadow Lane on the front. He opened it and started reading.
*It can be very difficult even for a so-called normal human to recover from substance abuse. For an underworldly being, the excuses are so many more, and we know of all of them. You have come a long way just by reading this and admitting that the problem exists. The average 12 step program is made by humans for humans, and may even cause extra stress for you as you have to hide your unusual abilities or features. At Shadow Lane you can share the journey with staff and patients who have had similar experiences as they help you to live free of alcohol and other substances one day at a time.
Although fundamentally quite like clinics such as Betty Ford, we adapt our treatment to beings of different species, starting with a thorough individual assessment...*
Angel kept reading, dazed by the information on a place he’d never even imagined existed. Bless that girl’s clairvoyant little soul! What he needed now was for Doyle to agree to all of this. That could be difficult enough, and Angel knew better than to try it himself. But Wesley would probably drop in soon, and judging by his demeanour lately, this was just what he had been looking for as well.
Wesley stroked Doyle’s arm thoughtfully, moving in circles to touch the tiny hairs. They were lying together in Wesley’s old creaky bed, taken to their new apartment by Gunn, who hadn’t minded playing burglar to clean out the old one. It was a good place, and they were making themselves comfortable, but at the moment, Wesley was decidedly *un*comfortable. Like Angel, he had been thrilled to hear about Shadow Lane. But to get Doyle to agree... No words came to mind that would guarantee a good reaction.
”What’s the matter?” Doyle leaned forward and kissed his neck. His eyes glittered. Wesley flinched as if accused.
”What makes you think anything is the matter?”
”You’ve been playing with my arm for twenty minutes now. Usually you move a little bit faster than that.”
There was no lying to this man -- or if there was, it took a bigger crook to Wesley to do it. ”I’m worried about you.”
Doyle stiffened. Wrong word, oh wrong word. ”I can take care of myself.”
”I know you can. But you could have died before. I thought you were going to die.”
The pleading was unworthy but honest, and Doyle shifted uneasily. ”It was a stupid mistake, but it’s not like I’m going to do it again.” He put an arm around Wesley’s shoulder, but Wesley shrugged it off. ”What? What is it you want from me?”
”I want you to quit. All of it, the drinking too.”
”Oh, come on.” The glitter had not yet entirely disappeared from Doyle’s eyes. ”I’m half Irish, half demon. I can handle it, Wes.”
”I don’t care if you can handle it. I don’t want to find you unconscious again -- or dead, for that matter.” He sat up straight in agitation, unsure how to continue. ”There’s this place that Angel heard of... for demons and other beings with alcohol problems...”
Doyle sat up straight too, and he certainly wasn’t amused anymore. ”I’m not going to stand up in some room saying ’hello, I’m Doyle, and I’m a demon alcoholic’ if that’s what you think.”
”It seems like a good place. There will be people there to help. Interdisciplinary teams, it said...”
”Why, thank you, I’ve had quite enough of interdisciplinary teams.”
”Don’t be such a bloody child!” Wesley shouted, leaving the bed. ”This isn’t just about you. It hurts me to see you hurting yourself. The hallucinations are bad enough...”
”Oh, I wasn’t aware you were the one having to live through them.” Doyle’s eyes had narrowed and his hands were curled up into fists. ”You have a lot of nerve, you know that? Just because we sleep together it doesn’t mean you own me. Sure, you’re a good shag, but I could go out and pick up any man or woman...”
”Then why don’t you? I’m not stopping you. Go get someone new, if you can find anyone who’d have you.” They were standing opposite each other now, only half dressed, and with a calm that only rage can give, Wesley said the next word: ”Freak.”
Doyle grabbed his shirt and headed for the door. ”Go to hell,” he muttered, and then he was gone, his angry steps fading down the stairs. Wesley sank back onto the bed, shaking with anger, loss and a strange satisfaction. He had never lost control this badly. It frightened him that it felt so good.
He waited up an hour or so, but it was already late, and Doyle obviously wasn’t planning on coming back any time soon. Most likely he was downstairs drinking, although it wasn’t completely unthinkable that he would be working instead, or as well. After the accident, Wesley had lost track of Doyle’s already irregular schedule, and he knew better than to assume anything when it came to Doyle. Maybe he wasn’t drinking at all. Maybe he just wanted to be alone. He certainly had proven he didn’t want to be with Wesley.
So, what now? Ugly things had been said, not so easy to forgive and forget. It was quite possible Doyle never intended to come back again. But even if he did show up later, ready to start anew, that really wouldn’t change anything. Wesley wanted Doyle as much as he wanted to live, but he had been telling the truth before. He couldn’t take any more of this -- *wouldn’t* take any more of this. If he gave in to Doyle he was no better than your average doormat and deserved to be treated like one.
Falling asleep was difficult when there was no one lying across him, no mutterings and kickings. Wesley tossed and turned, trying to find a position that wouldn’t remind him of the lack. It was funny, really. Usually he lay still as a stone, falling asleep instantly. And even when he had nightmares -- and obviously he had his share of those -- they were never as physical as Doyle’s. Most of the time he would just wake up in a cold sweat and with a pounding heart, but as silent and still as ever. Now it was as if he was trying to take over Doyle’s behaviour to fill the void.
He hadn’t even realized he was sleeping until he woke up with the awareness of a heavy weight settling next to him, accompanied by the smell of whiskey. At first he snuggled closer to the slender arms that rested around him, but as soon as he had woken up properly his happiness was replaced with anger. So Doyle *had* been getting himself drunk, and now he just expected Wesley to be fine with that, no questions asked. Hardly. Reaching for his glasses, Wesley released himself from the embrace and left the bed.
”Where are you going?” Doyle’s voice was sleepy, and he was obviously more than half drunk.
”You said something about Hell,” Wesley replied, taking his pillow as well as the folded-up bedspread. If Doyle thought they’d be sleeping in the same bed tonight, he was sorely mistaken.
Doyle chuckled a little and rolled over. ”With your reputation? They’d never let you in.”
Wesley was so angry he couldn’t possibly have come up with a good come-back to that even if he had wanted to, which he didn’t, particularly. Instead he just left for the living room, stopping for a second in the doorway. He wanted to say something right, that would make it all better and stop Doyle acting like this.
”We’ll talk about this when you’ve sobered up.”
Oh right, that was it, of course. Wesley sighed in frustration as he lay down on the sofa. He had sounded like his bleeding parents.
The sun was shining in his eyes, and Doyle was in the kitchen talking out loud. Wesley turned around and almost fell off the sofa. Of course nobody else was in the kitchen, so if Doyle was still talking... Wesley glanced up through the morning light and saw Doyle sitting cross-legged on the kitchen table with Wesley’s cell phone in hand. Ah yes. If Doyle was still talking, it meant spending more of Wesley’s money on what appeared to be a rather long conversation.
A rather long *long-distance* conversation, he realized when it dawned on him who Doyle was actually talking to. Well, if Doyle’s mother was to play priest to her son’s confessions again, money was probably a secondary issue. Although this time, it seemed Maureen Doyle was doing a lot more than patient listening.
”Don’t you think I know that?” Doyle’s voice was filled with the familiar desperate humour that was so appealing. ”Four times and still kicking is more than luck, the way I see it... *Yes*, mum... Well, it’s not like ’destiny’ is my favourite word right now... The bare thought of maybe another century with all that in my head... Yeah, but he won’t be around forever... What? Oh yes, he’s awake alright.”
Doyle turned his head and gave a lopsided grin to Wesley, who was by now sitting up in the sofa, unsuccessful in his attempts to politely avoid listening in. Wesley immediately frowned, determined not to give in to that smile. With a deep sigh, Doyle untangled his legs and walked into the living room, handing Wesley the cell phone. ”Mum wants to talk to you.”
Wesley’s disapproval was immediately replaced with panic. ”What? I couldn’t possibly...”
”She speaks English, you know. Not your posh English, but I’m sure you’ll understand each other.” Doyle nodded at the cell phone again, and Wesley took it up as if it was a bomb ready to explode.
He took a deep breath. ”This is Wesley Wyndham-Pryce speaking.”
”Hello, Wesley.” He had expected her to sound like a female version of Doyle, but instead he got a husky, no-nonsense kind of voice, and although her accent was Irish it wasn’t quite the same as her son’s. ”I’m Maureen Doyle.”
There was an extended pause when neither of them knew what to say. Wesley’s heart pounded so loud he was sure she could hear it on the other side of the Atlantic. What did she want with him?
”So you’re the one Frankie is with these days.”
”Yes, Mrs. Doyle.”
”That’s good. I’m glad he’s with someone, he’s no good at being alone. Never has been. Frankie says you want him to stop drinking?”
Did she mind that? Maybe she thought it was none of his business. ”Yes, Mrs. Doyle.”
”I hope you make it. By the sound of it, he might just care enough about you to give it a try. It’s more difficult for him.” A touch of concern.
”Angel found this place that accepts demons...” Wesley stopped short. ”I mean...”
”It’s quite alright, Wesley, I know what he is.” And for the first time he could hear a bit of Doyle in her, in that desperate humour that showed up.
”Yes, Mrs. Doyle.”
Another pause, this time shorter. ”Would you say it’s serious, what you two have?”
That wasn’t what he expected, and he didn’t know what to say. ”Yes, I... Quite serious, yes.”
”Then for Pete’s sake, stop calling me Mrs. Doyle. It’s Maureen.”
”Yes... Maureen.”
”That’s a lad. Goodbye now, Wesley. I’d like to meet you some time.”
”I’d like to meet you too,” Wesley whispered, letting the phone sink down before he remembered to turn it off. He looked at Doyle. ”She’s...”
”Quite something,” Doyle suggested, sitting down next to him on the sofa. ”I know. I’m sobered up now, can we talk?”
Wesley nodded numbly, not sure what they were going to talk about. Maureen had just, to all intents and purposes, given them her blessing. How could he possibly break up with Doyle after that? ”I’m sorry about what I said last night. Some of it, anyway.”
”Yeah, same here. Some of it.” Doyle drummed his fingers against the armrest. ”It’s not that I don’t agree with you... in theory. I drink too much. Everyone does, on the street.” He silenced, and Wesley said nothing either, knowing that this was not the time for well-thought out arguments.
”Three times after my real death I’ve been on my way there. Every time I was pushed back. And sometimes I want to go so badly, especially when it starts to whisper in here.” He tapped his temple. ”And I don’t know if it’s real or not, if it really hurts this much... and now I find out it’s one hundred and fifty years.” He looked up at Wesley. ”I looked up the expected length of life for a Brachen. One hundred and fifty years of *this*.”
”It may be shorter for you,” Wesley said in a low voice, even though he knew it was no comfort. ”Since you’re a half-breed.”
”There’s really just two things that help. Drinking is one of them. The other is you. Sex with you, especially.”
Wesley looked up, entwining his fingers with Doyle’s. ”So depend on me.”
”I can’t. Don’t you understand, that’s exactly what I *can’t* do. Anything could happen. It’s not exactly a safe life we’re leading. I don’t want to lose you, but I can’t help thinking the drinks will always be there. And if I don’t have that, and I don’t have you, then I’m all alone. And I’m no good at being alone.”
”She said,” Wesley replied, thinking about it. ”But... you know... you’re not alone. Your mother is there for you. Angel... Cordelia and Gunn. They do care.”
”It’s not the same.”
”No. It’s not. And there may be times when there’s no one at all. I know how frightening that is, believe me. But I happen to think you’re strong enough to handle it.”
”Then you think more of me than I do,” Doyle replied dryly. Wesley punched him slightly.
”That’s what friends are for.”
”Friends, huh?” Doyle moved in a little closer. ”Would friends do what I...”
”No.” Wesley shook his head in determination. ”We’re not having sex now.”
”Why on earth not?”
”I want a promise from you.”
”Alright,” Doyle sighed. ”I promise to try. I promise to go to the place Angel heard of... where I will be all alone...” He gave a humourous grimace, but there was sincerity under it. Although said in joking tones, the promise was real, and Wesley knew it.
”They do allow visitors, you know. In fact, they encourage it.”
”Really?” Doyle stilled. ”Could we have sex, too?”
”Well, it didn’t say specifically...”
”Oh yes, we’ll have sex,” Doyle determined. ”Shagging makes the world go around...”
The house looked a little misplaced in the middle of the Mojave desert. For one thing, it must have been really hard to grow that nice little garden. The tinted, unpolished windows were really more churchlike than anything else, but they looked remarkably good even fitted into a large three-storey villa. All in all, it was an image that could have fitted into a nice G-rated movie about perky little girls with braids, just surrounded by a desert.
”I get a strange Wizard of Oz feeling,” Doyle mumbled. ”Is that a pentagram on the door?”
”So it is,” Wesley said with a fascinated smile. All this rural charm, yet there was a reason the windows were tinted. Non-humans tended to be rather cautious when it came to things like public view. Located like this, it wasn’t really very public, but you never knew when tourists could happen to pass by.
”It’s... nice,” Doyle admitted. ”A little too nice. You don’t think they’d make us watch Bambi or anything? Because... you know... I might start cheering when they kill his mother.”
Wesley gave him a friendly push in the back. ”Don’t be such a coward.”
Doyle whimpered a little in jest, but proceeded forward, opening the iron gate, and Wesley followed after him, looking around. Those flowers couldn’t possibly grow in Eastern California. Interesting. So they had at least one witch with green fingers around here.
”You know, if they curse me or anything...” Doyle started as they came closer to the door, and Wesley smacked him on the head lightly.
The door opened and a chubby brunette stepped out. Her blouse looked like a painter had used it to wipe his brushes, and she had earrings the size of hula-hoops, but she also had a very nice smile and hurried forward to greet them.
”Hello Wesley, hello Doyle,” she said, giving them both warm handshakes. ”I’m Mary, and I’m a patient here. If you come with me, I’ll show you around.”
”What sort of patient exactly?” Doyle asked, watching her clothes. She smiled as if what he had said wasn’t rude at all.
”LSD and cannabis mostly. But I understand you can get that sort of effect even drug-free. Lucky you.”
Wesley looked up in the sky, pretending not to be smiling as they went inside. He was immediately yanked back by the firm grip Doyle had on his sleeve.
”I’m going to *die* in here!” Doyle whispered.
”No, you won’t. You’ll live long and prosper, and after you get out we’ll take a trip to Ireland and meet your mother.”
”Yeah?” Doyle watched him intently, and then his eyes shifted to Mary, as she led them to some stairs and began to ascend ahead of them. He tilted his head. ”Yeah.”
She looked down. ”Your room is up here.”
Giving Wesley a rather desperate kiss, Doyle finally let go, and then with a determined nod followed the girl upstairs, Wesley following close behind. ”Yeah.”
THE END