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A Bit Special

By Rabbit

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A cold, wet bed of sand prods his brain to uncoil. Little sparks of warning not fully formatted into recognizable language yet, give him the impression of location, try frantically to warn of so much more. It seems his instincts have grown sluggish after all these years of living among humans, because he can’t summon the energy to be truly concerned about that feeling that something is just *wrong*. Barely even a struggle to see just what lies beyond the warm, quiet place behind his eyelids.

Sigh, and roll over. //It’s a dream.// But a tiny, persistent wisp of alarm doesn’t leave him in peace, nags, chips away at the resolve to lie in peace and fuck anything that disturbs the eternal question: why he can’t just sleep forever? Why can’t he just leave everything behind and drift lazily forever in this fantasy that everything’s alright, why can’t he ignore that logical portion of his intellect that has to over analyze every bit of input and endlessly use it against him.// Wake up! Get up! Something has changed and you need to deal with it.//

The hard surface of a beach, recently skimmed by the receding tide, is uncomfortable underneath his cheek, and the physical annoyance is the final impetus needed to convince him to move at last. He opens his eyes reluctantly to the assault of daylight painted vividly overhead, and instinctively rolls to the shelter of a large pile of twisted driftwood rising against the blue grey sky. He waits for his skin to smolder, crouches with belly grazing the earth as the narrow shade provides a moment to wonder if he’s lost his mind -finally. Aren’t blackouts some sign of impending psychosis? //And he thought he was doing so well.// The obvious question is, where the hell is he, and how the hell did he get here? Two questions really, but, sort of a theme, so he lets it slide.

It’s some lonely stretch of beach, littered with small, round pebbles and shards of white shell. Not Tahiti, if the rolling dark clouds overhead are a clue. The cold mist over the water hits something deep inside, a memory of a place he hasn’t been back to in over a century-Ireland. Without thinking, Angel recklessly reaches out to touch the rocky earth, as if some tactile memory could offer explanation. Lucid thought returns when his hand doesn’t burst into flame and he stifles the reaction to pull it back. Now he knows he must be dreaming.

About fifty yards inland, there’s a small fishing shack, something that could’ve been in his lifetime, stone and mud and not a sign of electricity destroying the illusion. Home fires stoked and a curl of smoke cuts through a flock of squawking gulls flying overhead. And it seems the most likely course of action, to go inside and see who or what has summoned him here.But not before one last turn around, to take in rock and sea and an endlessly stretching horizon that’s been unknown since he’s lived in darkness. Except for twice: The Gem of Amara and the day with Buffy that was stolen. Neither of those were enough to satisfy the craving to walk in daylight though.

That’s the thing. The world never seems so open under moonlight. Under the stars it seems vast, but more intimate, like the night sky is closing down on him, crushing him, incorporating him into the mystery. The mystery of blood and secrecy, and the necessity of joining the night in her hunt. Even with a soul, it still calls to him, making him second guess that delicate line between conscience and longing, makes him shove the demon deep down inside until his hands are shaking, makes him deny that he’s a part of her, covered in the sweet, sticky blood she begs him to liberate from her human children. He’ll never be able to wash it all clean. As long as the demon resides within him, he’ll never be free of those ties.

A blue-sky overhead feels so much more separate, an unreachable entity that’s never fully accessed, outside and apart. Blue skies and sun reject him, know the secrets he’s trying to forget, and mock him for ever thinking he could change his allegiance. They’re almost as harsh a judge as he is.

But not today, they’re just…scenery. What other dimension can he be in, with a sun that’s so familiar, yet doesn’t play by the established rules? At least the water’s consistent with what he knows.

The motion of waves constantly breaks the line of the sea, and when he focuses closer, dark shapes pop in and out of view, clearing the surface and then disappearing. What the hell? Silhouettes that bob along then disappear with no warning. It’s explained when the guttural bark of seals playing reaches his ear, distracts him enough so that he watches them for a few moments. Their movements are so easy, mesmerizing against the rolling tide. One ducks underwater and doesn’t reappear, can’t explain why he steps forward in concern. Loses his footing, and balance goes to hell. He just manages keep from falling on his ass, and remembers he needs to find out where the hell this place is. One more look out to the horizon, and he still doesn’t see the one that vanished.

The ground is drier away from the tide; calf muscles work hard against the unsteady, softer texture, crunching as heels grind the debris underfoot, and he can’t suppress some instinct that gives a sense of returning home. Oh, not the house he grew up in, because Liam’s father was certainly more prosperous than these surroundings, but the feeling that somehow he *belongs * here, that he’s been waiting to arrive…

Cautiously, touches the weathered wood, and exerts enough pressure to feel it give, hears the creak and shifts his balance to try and see the interior, like some vandal afraid of being caught trespassing. When it’s open enough, he feels the absence of barrier denying entrance, steps through the doorway, and sees the very last thing expected: green eyes, dark curls and a smile of recognition that’s been buried in memory. Doyle.

“Well hello to you then, I thought you were never coming.”

Angel tries to speak, but can’t get any sound past the lump in his throat. He can’t process this. No logical explanation exists that can justify Doyle’s presence here, because Angel saw him die.

There’s a burning, crushing sensation in his chest, and an irregular thumping that he can’t believe. Except for one day forfeited to the oracles, it’s been almost two and a half centuries since he’s felt it, not vicariously in someone else, but *there*. Inside. His heart…beating. What is going on?

“Doyle?” How can one simple word represent the shock that’s overtaken him? It can’t, but at the moment, it’s all he can manage.

A small shake of Doyle’s head, and an amused, non-vocal opinion of Angel’s intelligence that comes out as a cross between a choke and a snort, then, “Well, you always were a bit *special*, it’s nice to see some things haven’t changed. We’ll be working on stringing the words together to form sentences tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ll go slow with ya.”

Angel’s chest sputters with the need to exhale, and he realizes he’s been holding his breath. He needs to breathe?

“Doyle?”

“We’ve established that.” Doyle nods his head up and down, wide eyed like he’s talking to an irrational mental patient.

“You’re dead.”

“Eh, do I look that bad?” He cranes his neck, looking down at his torso. //Exaggerated sarcasm was always his forte. //“ I couldn’t tell. There’s no mirror here. But, you’d know what that’s like wouldn’t ya?”

The last time Angel saw him, Doyle knocked him over a railing and sacrificed himself to stop the scourge. He can swear the imprint of Doyle’s fist is burning him, it has for over a year. Another face in the montage of those he’s lost, those he’s failed.” He just has to know, “ Where is this place? How did you get here, how did I?”

"I can't explain it man, it just *is*.”

He suddenly rediscovers the ability to argue. “Doyle, there’s got to be a reason. Where is this place, and why are we both here?” // How do I get back, and how do I bring you with me?”//

“You never can give up control can ya? Ya never could.” Doyle begins piling things on the tabletop, until he comes up with a small silver flask. “Ah, there it is.” With a quick twist, the top’s off and he tilts his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

“Did it happen? Is this it- did I shansu?”

“Bless ya.” Doyle looks around, pushing aside more dishes, undoing his previous attempt, until he comes up with a linen dishtowel and hands it to Angel.

He wonders if it really just five seconds ago that he was missing Doyle? Angel’s beyond exasperation now. “This must be hell, I’ve been sent here to see if I’m crazy. Right?”

“You never know ‘til you’ve been tested.”

~*~*~*~

“I should have tested the safety. It just wouldn’t fire,” Wesley’s voice was strained as he hefted his end of one unconscious vampire.

“Oh my God,” Cordelia unlocked the door and nearly dropped the keys. A quick reflex caught them halfway to the floor, and she shoved the door until it slammed into the wall behind, “Get him inside.” then hurried for the first aid kit in the desk drawer.

Wesley and Gunn, supporting Angel’s body between them, dragged him into the office. He wasn’t able to walk any like he had been earlier, and they were literally *dragging* him.

Gunn grunted as they eased the vampire onto the couch, “Man, this looks bad. That thing really took a bite out of him.”

Wesley didn’t offer any comment, he just frowned as he hefted Angel’s legs onto the cushion and tried to make his position more comfortable. When he’d accomplished that, he crossed the room and began pulling books off the shelf in a seemingly random pattern.

Gunn stared at Angel,” How in the hell are we gonna even know how he’s doing if there’s no heartbeat or breathing? Damn, this isn’t the war I’ve been fighting for all these years, at least before; I always knew when someone was checking out.” He turned around to where Wesley was leafing through one of the books. “He’s gonna make it though, right? I mean, no stake, no sun…still got his head?”

“I don’t know. I’m not familiar with the demon species that attacked. I don’t know what effects its bite has, if there’s some kind of venom, or what response a vampire has to it. I’ll try to see if I can find something here.”

Cordelia had already assembled some bandages and antiseptic, she told Gunn to get Angel’s shirt off, and began what she’d really become an expert in-patching Angel up.

As Gunn stepped back, Cordelia took some damp gauze, and carefully wiped the fluid oozing from the bite: blood and a thick, oily, yellow substance she’d never seen before. The vampire never moved a muscle, even when she had to scrub at some that had dried about three centimeters from his areola.

“Did you find anything yet?” Gunn tore his gaze away as he balled Angel’s tattered shirt and tossed it in the garbage can.

“Not yet, “ Wesley called absently.

“Uh guys, is he supposed to be doing this?” Cordelia asked in panic. She was trying to hold Angel’s body still as it started to convulse uncontrollably.

Both Wesley and Gunn ran to the couch to help her, noting the sweat that poured off of the vampire in accompaniment to the shaking.

“It’s induced some sort of febrile reaction.” Wesley said

~*~*~*~

Doyle pours a generous shot in a mug and hands it to Angel. “Take a pull offa this, you’re looking a bit …” Deliberate pause and one raised eyebrow. “*hot*.” When he sees Angel isn’t taking that bait, he smiles and shakes his head. “Not used to the blazing sun out there are ya?”

“No, it’s not that at all.” From the look of the sky, and the fog, it must be 40 degrees out there, but it seems warm enough inside. Probably because he’s unused to 98.6, this will take a lot of getting used to. Everything will.

“Well, don’t stand there like a lump, sit down. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

They did, starting with the most obvious. Angel makes no move to obey Doyle’s suggestion, stands hovering by the door, trying to formulate everything he wants to say into a comprehensible sentence.

“I’m sorry.” He’s never said that out loud. He and Cordelia hadn’t talked about how Doyle’s death had affected them.

Once, she’d caught Angel watching the last video, that stupid commercial she’d badgered Doyle into making. Neither had said a word, Cordy had just stood behind him, silently watching with him. Two shell-shocked survivors of the war, the subject of Doyle was something that they never discussed.

“I should’ve…” his voice breaks and he realizes there’s a reason he’s never spoken about Doyle. Tries again because it’s so important to say it. “I should’ve thought of something else. There must have been another way…”

“Is that what this is all about? You’ve dragged me all the way here, because ye feel guilty?” Doyle laughs, “I should’a known, your the king of broody blame aren’t ya? Quit beatin’ yourself up about it, it was my decision. Ya were gonna do the same. I just beat ya to it. Is that why you’re so mad?”

“I’m so mad because it shouldn’t have happened. I should’ve got there sooner, I should’ve lost them…”

“Well I forgive ye then, does that make it all better?”

It didn’t erase the holes he’d punched into various walls of their office in the months following Doyle’s death, or the sight of Cordelia’s face wet with tears. It didn’t banish the memory of Doyle’s body disintegrating as he gave his life to save a group of complete strangers, but it did bring Angel back to that place, just before he’d done it, and that bittersweet knowledge that they’d never see each other again.

Angel steps forward in a rush and embraces the other man, crushes the Irishman’s slight frame in an unconscious statement that violence will be necessary to take him away again.“Doyle, God. I can’t believe this. I’ve wanted so much to see you again, to tell you everything that’s happened. Everything’s been so…”

“Fucked up? That’s what ya get for abandoning the fight.” The words are a little cut off as the air is forced out of Doyle’s lungs.

Keeps his grip tight, feeling the bones of Doyle’s shoulder blades cutting into the muscles of bicep and forearm, savoring the reminder that this is real? No ghosts. No apparition. No dream to be woken from, just flesh, blood, and the loveable face of a fellow Irishman and fallen comrade. Someone, some force somewhere, has just answered a year of smoldering rage and promises to God. Doyle is back. Angel doesn’t want to be reminded of what a self-pitying bastard he’s been lately.

He rolls his face sideways, tucking his nose into the dip of a throat out of habit. Vampire instincts are hard to ignore, hardwired into his brain so deep they can probably never be extinguished, not even now. Draw in the essence of this moment, warmth, the aura of electricity radiating from two human bodies like a physiological barrier that separates, repels, then gives so that both can touch and meld into one another.

“You’re not thinking of sliding back into your bloodletting ways are ye?” Nervous laughter that vibrates the skin over the conduit of blood keeping the brain oxygenated enough to create that sentence. Wavering between serious and kidding.

“No,” If he whispers the assurance directly against the surface, will it leech into Doyle’s system? Flow with the blood and get delivered directly to the stress response of the brain, calm the flight instinct that’s already tensed his spine. “Just creating a memory.”

“Kind of like a dog?” Smirking little leer, hidden from view, but all too evident in tone.

Images of canine fidelity: curling around legs, waiting patiently against abandonment, and unswerving loyalty to calling. These taunt him. No, he’s already failed that test of devotion. Isn’t that why every day he’s been about proving that he’s found his way home to the cause, that he can be trusted? Not only by himself, but also by those who did and were disappointed?

“Like someone who needs reminding.” He feels Doyle pulling away, knows that to hold him any longer would approach that line of *uncomfortable obsession*, and reluctantly loosens his grip.

But not before making an excuse to sheer their cheeks against one another, feels the scratchy growth just beginning to form. He’s human, Doyle’s here, and he’s been forgiven, been released by the Powers That Be. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it, until he feels their lips meet. It’s a celebration of finally reaching his greatest desire? And who better to share it with than Doyle?

The feeling of his own breath tickling his upper lip, sends a joyful little chuckle escaping, lips parting, and as his teeth scrape the outline of Doyle’s lips, Angel feels the Irishman’s tongue slip into his mouth. Natural and confident, it doesn’t feel strange, just flavored by aged rye whiskey and the tang of salt, like something that he should have become acquainted with a long time ago, something they’ve both deprived themselves of.

There’s always been some corner of his brain, well guarded and tucked away; that’s wondered what a moment like this might be like. On nights when Doyle’s eyes were soft and blurred from alcohol, face relaxed and lips slack. When the half demon draped himself on top of the bar, chin in hand and argued some irrelevant bit of trivia until Angel wanted to shut him up the only way that came to his own liquor soaked brain-with lips and tongue and a hand yanking Doyle’s head back until windpipe was squeezed shut. With lashes closed and the room spinning, the only way to tell if the heart was still beating would be to feel it, with hand or chest or fangs at the source.

And he doesn’t even have the excuse of inebriation to cushion this awareness, doesn’t even have the presence of the demon to initiate that possession, but still feels the ghost of the impulse calling him to take everything. Leave nothing. Want. Take. Have. This is still your right. But he does none of those things. Neither takes nor backs away, just accepts and welcomes a promise of perfect happiness that might just be allowed for once.

First, there’s a gentle teasing and Doyle sucks his tongue, draws it in. Angel’s content to just see what happens, just relish the fact that blood is circulating through him. Not stolen. *His* blood, he made it with this human body and it belongs to him. The same fluid runs through Doyle…or at least half of his is human? Maybe the Brachen has been dismissed as easily as his own demon?

He can’t ignore it when Doyle tongue changes its modus operandi, increasing the pressure, harder and more needy. Doyle’s been cut off too, isolated. It must’ve been hell here all alone. To Angel, that’s no big deal, not after a century or more of self imposed quarantine from the human race. That’s not something Doyle was cut out for though. Doyle was a numbers guy, a gambler, a hustler. He thrived on working an angle on everyone he met.

That’s another reason why it should have been Angel who disarmed the scourges’ weapon. Doyle’s hell would’ve been Angel’s heaven. It’s all right, though. Doyle wouldn’t suffer here alone any longer.

It’s odd to recognize that allowances must be made for physiology, for intake and expulsion of atmospheric gasses that never was a consideration before. Head tilts and repositions to continue contact, but allow space. It never seemed like such an intricate ballet before.

~*~*~*~

The violent seizures had caused the vampire’s body to slide halfway to the floor. Gunn wrapped a hand behind Angel’s neck and hooked his arm underneath the vampire’s arm. Wesley had a vaguely similar position on the other side, and between them, they managed to heft him back onto the piece of furniture. When the shaking started again, Gunn helplessly threw his own body over Angel to keep him in place. Wesley and Cordelia exchanged worried glances before the Englishman hurried back to his reference books.

Cordelia gasped when she saw a discolored lump forming on Angel’s forehead, dark purple bruise giving way to an unnatural tumor like growth. He’d hit his head somehow.

“He’s going to get brain damage. Hold him down,” Her voice was a little harsher than she’d intended, but there wasn’t anytime for apologies now. She was already wetting a cloth in cold water and trying to hold it to his forehead. Gunn had to shift his shoulder to accommodate her arm coming over the top of him. He was still trying to use his body weight to keep Angel relatively immobile.

“Hey, unless you ain’t noticed Queenie…I’m doing my best here. Pardon the fuck out of me.”

“I forgive you, if he makes it out of this alive…or dead. Oh, hell, if he retains all of his IQ points and doesn’t have to start riding the short bus.”

Gunn looks down at the quaking body underneath him. Close enough to feel his breath projected back at him. “This is fucked up. I knew we should’ve abandoned this fight. If I’d a known that demon was twelve feet tall, I’d a been running a hell of a lot sooner.”

“Wesley, are you getting anything?” Cordelia called accusingly over her shoulder. She looked down at the sight of Gunn struggling to keep Angel still, body draped over him, one hand gripping the armrest over their heads, the other tucked underneath the frame of the couch. “Aren’t we supposed to put something in his mouth? So he doesn’t bite his tongue?” She folded the washcloth into fourths and shoved it between his teeth. “There.” She really wasn’t sure if that would help or not.

~*~*~*~*~

Doyle pulls away first, blinks heavy eyes. “Well that’s something completely different?”

Angel fights with where to put his hands, somewhere that is *not* Doyle, somewhere that isn’t contrived and awkward. Which is hard, since touching Doyle is the only thing that feels natural at the moment “I could blame it on this place, the strangeness of suddenly being human?”

“You could, and I might believe ya.”

“I don’t know what any of this means…why *this* is. I keep trying to explain it, but…”

“Then don’t. There aren’t any gypsy curses here, or blonde girls who were born to exterminate ya and your kind. You’ve put up a good fight, and made the world a kinder, safer place” An amused smirk that makes the barest indent of a dimple just past the left corner of Doyle’s bottom lip. “Now let it go.”

Now why couldn’t he ever adopt that easygoing mentality that made Doyle so charming? “I’m not programmed to let it go. I’ve been trained to suffer, and if I’m not, my brain automatically looks for the small print.

“You have to be deprogrammed.”

The daylight has dimmed, sliding into dusk without them noticing the change. An ember from the fire snaps loudly, shooting about four feet into the room. It strikes the floor, and rolls, sends a trail of sparks sputtering in its wake. Doyle steps back, and looks reluctantly at the fireplace. “Don’t wanna burn the place down.”

“No,” Angel agrees softly, intently watches the smaller man pad across the floor, pick up an iron and stir the embers.

Doyle props a wire screen over the opening, containing the fire. “It’s getting late. We’d better discuss the sleeping arrangements.”

“And those would be?”

Doyle nods to a sleeping berth, just large enough to contain a barely double bed. Curtains separated it from the main room. “You’re looking at it, the finest in shanty accommodations.

“That’s the bedroom?” He can hear the incredulous disbelief in his own voice.

“Well, it’s the bed.” Doyle wipes his hands on his shirt, leaving a smear of black soot from the ashes of the fire.

“And we’re both supposed to fit in there?”

“It might take a little finessing.”

“It’s going to take a shoehorn and a gallon of something extremely slippery.”

“Nice visual, now that’s the spirit. Go a ‘head, I won’t compromise ya if that’s what you’re worried about? Strictly hands to myself.” Nervous warbling on the vowels, the fear of actions that once committed, can never be rescinded, with a slight dash of self-protection.

Angel gets a small stab of disappointment that has to be insulated, coated in reason and ‘It doesn’t matter, I don’t care’. Doesn’t have to dig too far to find the bravado that sometimes helps, the ability to push away that he’s honed for so many years “Why would I be worried about you? I may not be a vampire anymore, but I think I could still kick your ass.”

“I’m sure ya could.”

“As long as we’ve established that.” He doesn’t know why he’s backing off so fast. If there are no more vampire issues to worry about, why can’t he just accept all of this? Because the concept of peace and happiness are so foreign? The carrot’s been dangled one too many times? Control is really that much of an issue, that he can’t for once, just let it go?

Doyle studies the front of his shirt and frowns. Makes a mental decision, and sways back, only far enough to pull his shirt over his head. Shoulders flex as it catches on his elbows, making each muscle group pop up in sharp definition. Violent tug and it comes free, wads it up and tosses it carelessly behind him.

Fibery tissue and tendons, covered by a thin layer of skin. Angel knows just what Doyle would look like from the inside out. Angelus used to have a passion for the *intimate* study of anatomy from living, or recently living, models, and this was usually the preferred body type.

Doyle has a smaller physique, but well muscled arms and shoulders, tight abdominal muscles, slim waist. There are some tastes the demon can’t fully claim as his, they’re communal property. Angel can’t stop the visual of reaching out a hand, sliding it down the other man’s pec, brushing the nipple with his palm and watching the rosey pink disc of Doyle’s nipple tighten.

No, some cravings can’t be exorcised. He clears his throat and crawls over the foot of the bed, fitting his bulk into the small space and wondering how this is going to work. A vision of waking up to find his arm slung over Doyle’s ass forces him to close his eyes and imagine he’s dead from the waist down. The glow of lights goes out, and he can feel the mattress sink as Doyle joins him. Curses the Powers That Be and their bizarre idea of heaven or hell, or wherever this place is.

There’s that lilt so close to his ear, “You haven’t told me how Cordy’s doing?”

“She’s okay, a little on edge since the visions have been getting worse.”

“ She got them then. Oh man, I’ll tell ya, I don’t miss those.”

“Did you know you were giving them to her?”

Doyle sighs, folds his arms behind his head. Angel can see his profile in the dim light of the fire, staring up at the ceiling. “At first, I just really wanted to kiss her, but halfway through, I felt this…’energy’ going through me. I knew she’d have the visions if I didn’t stop.”

Angel can’t stop the urge to shift his body, turns and faces his companion in curiosity. “And you didn’t?”

“I knew you’d need someone with a connection.” His answer is just that bald statement of fact, no apologies or recriminations, not terribly softened by Doyle’s carnival barker delivery. He always sounded like he was trying to look at your cards, sell you something. It could be a little hard sometimes to tell if he was trying to make some money or save his own ass.

Doyle blew Angel’s vision of himself as a fairly accurate reader of people. Whenever he thought he had the Irishman figured out, Doyle threw another curve that kept Angel second guessing his instincts. “I’m sure she’d love to thank you personally for that executive decision.”

“We all have to give a little something to the cause.”

And Doyle had paid the ultimate sacrifice, hadn’t he. Cordy is alive, protected by friends, while the Irishman had burned slowly, painfully, separated all this time from any other living soul. “I guess you’re right,” his soft tones spill out in the inches of space between them, further subdued by the guilt that he’d asked Doyle to pay that price. This may be his fight, but the casualties were starting to pile up behind him.

Doyle swivels his head, keeping his arms folded underneath as a cushion, watches the former vampire staring at him. “You’re thinking depressing thoughts again, aren’t ya?”

“Am not.” The defensive inflection fools neither of them.

Doyle lowers his chin and looks sternly up through his lashes.

“Okay I am. Habits are hard to quit once they’ve passed that century mark. I need to wear a rubber band around my wrist, snap it when I get morose…kind of like trying to quit smoking.”

“What you need is a distraction, something to keep your mind occupied. Then, one day, you’ll wake up and realize that ya don’t need the brood to get ya through the day anymore. You’re free man, no more monkey on your back, he’s dead.”

“Well, if it’s my monkey, of course I’d kill him.”

“I see this isn’t gonna be easy for me is it?” Doyle, unfolds his arms, rolls over further onto his side and leans in close. Winks a green eye conspiratorially, pulls their bodies closer together with a hand on Angel's nape. Not gently this time. He has a point to make, and he's determined to spell it out clearly. Two men, good friends, there is only one part of the equation that doesn't add up-too many clothes.

Doyle’s slim fingers work the first dark button of Angel’s shirt, spreading the fabric apart, and straining the threads of the next in his impatience to be rid of it. Pushes the material off of broad shoulders, and calloused finger pads impatiently explore the contrasts between flat planes and the swell of muscles rising taut as Angel struggles off the mattress, trying to get free of the shirt wrapped around him.

He does and immediately rolls over, Doyle underneath him, forearm to forearm. Doyle’s hands are pinned against the mattress like some bastardization of the pictures of saints from his childhood, and there’s nothing for Doyle to do but look into the dark eyes of the beast that has been awakened, knowing that this was probably the last sight for many of Angelus’ victims, and probably wondering at the moment if the demon’s truly been purged.

“I’m making a decision here,” He says tersely above Doyle. Nostrils flare, like he can smell the arousal, the beginning of musky perspiration caused by the glowing embers of a banked fire and the close proximity of human bodies. “This could lead to something dangerous…wrong. Or just something really fucked up. But I’m giving you the choice, the final say. Tell me to stop.”

One moment of infinite space, lasting seconds and an eternity at the same time. All possibilities converge, criss cross one another in and endless array of outcomes. Terror. Uncertainty. Pain. Bliss. Forever. Everything’s there in an unnerving tableau of potentials, hinged on one decision.

And the acute knowledge that he’s holding his breath as he looks down into green eyes, and a beautiful, delicately boned face that he’s never appreciated at this level before. He says a quick prayer for acquiescence, because outcome be damned, he really wants to feel Doyle under him, hear that soft grunt as he feels the other man open for him, the slight, hissing intake of air as he slides further in.

No words. Doyle lifts his torso the inch he can by hyper extending his shoulders, comes in sideways and bites Angel’s lower lip enough to cause him to jump. Surprise and appreciation are quickly overcome and he lets his weight fall. The shock of their torso's butting impatiently against each other rocks through both of them.

The slide of skin against skin, belly against belly, as his wrists migrate down Doyle’s arms, fingers trolling behind. They are the last fleeting touch as they skim over elbows, and Angel pushes the ball of each hand deeply into the soft surface of the mattress, not far enough from Doyle’s hips to even be considered separate, still touching, just barely. And, as Angel rolls his shoulders to bring their lips together again, his scapula jut out, elbows stretching like wings behind him. Fluttering patches of golden light race along his skin, mimicking the folding and rippling of feathered appendages. But both are too occupied to appreciate it, too caught up to even notice the sharp cut of round metal buttons digging into navels.

The muscles of Angel’s thighs and buttocks contract as he shifts his center of gravity to his hips, coming off of Doyle’s prone body, and moving his lips down the other man’s neck. Rests his forehead against the skin right underneath Doyle’s left nipple, feels the heartbeat housed there, revels in the knowledge that he shares that particular anatomical trait now.

Doyle hasn’t moved, and Angel lifts his chin, delighting in rubbing the stubble against the puckered nub, to see the Irishman with eyes shut tightly. He chuckles softly to himself as he circles the areola with his tongue, leaving a wet sheen of saliva that shines in the inconstant light, sparkling when the flames sputter, then crackle back to their full height. He continues down, hands flicking the fastening of Doyle’s jeans. The button is free and zipper teeth part quickly so that he can link his thumbs through the belt loops and pull them past the hipbones. Cobalt blue bikini cut. Who would have guessed that? Doyle is full of surprises. They soon join the jeans, pulled down to just above the knees because he’s just *that* impatient, and can’t be bothered to delay it any longer when it already seems a decade has passed.

It has been awhile since he’s done this. Angelus used to, but only in instances of physical and psychological torture. No, he’d definitely preferred to be on the receiving end. Poor William had grown to be quite expert at it by the time the gypsies had laid their curse. And Penn? Well, Penn had been born a cocksucker. Post souling? He’d been much too busy running from humanity.

Angel takes one deep breath for stability and courage, like a mantra, imagines red cells racing along his circulatory system, invading every arterial, every spidery, forgotten branch or vessel, and cleansing any remaining drop of stagnant blood from his veins. Reinventing himself. As if that could erase the memories inherited from the demon: Drusilla clawing her flesh away in an attempt to remove his touch after the first time he’d fucked her, William’s shaking hands the initial time Angelus had ordered him to his knees, and later the blood caking the lashes around those blue eyes, the blood that was always necessary before Spike would submit to any form of authority. Concentrate. Focus. Change could liberate him from the continually looped scene of Darla’s foot against Penn’s neck, choking him before she’d allow him to masturbate to ejaculation. He can visualize the gift of life, consecrating the creature he’s become, dispelling those sins, and recovering them, reinventing them. Darkness will weave an unfamiliar pattern of hope, if he can believe in it long enough.

Hands grip Doyle’s outer thigh, knuckles locked white and painful, until he recognizes the pressure, and lightens his grip. It’s a blessing that vampire strength has passed, and discomfort, not disfigurement is the only lasting impression. But Doyle voices no protest, no censure, and it’s more than Angel deserves. Nose tucked in the crevice of the velvet sack of Doyle’s scrotum, and lips resting briefly on those short curls. He can’t detect the slightest aroma of fear, which is already so different from the terror the unpredictable Scourge of Europe had elicited in not only strangers, but also those closest to him. And isn’t that enough proof for him? He isn’t that anymore, God, not anymore.

Beads of clear fluid are positioned at the slit of Doyle’s cock. Angel’s fingers clasp it, spanning the width as his tongue coats the ridges. Red lips widen and replace fingers down the shaft. One hand on Doyle’s belly as he arches his hips against Angel’s mouth. Gentle pressure with the heel of his hand sinking a little into the indentation of Doyle’s naval, brings the other man’s tailbone back in contact with the mattress, and his thumb strokes the bordering edge of wiry hair growing over the pubic bone.

Angel tilts his head, and the tip of Doyle’s cock juts against the inside of his cheek, nudging against the membranous lining. Left hand comes underneath Doyle’s scrotum, palm cupping the sac and raising it, rolling it before Angel hunches his shoulders, raises up and comes down from above again. Lowers his head and Doyle’s shaft disappears between his lips, prompting the other man to reach down and grab fistfuls of chestnut hair. With knees bent, soles slipping against the bed for leverage, a harsh, low syllable that doesn’t sound like English drifts from the head of the bed.

A lazy sequence of advance and retreat, slight scrape of teeth on the upstroke and the freedom of not having to worry about it. Index finger slips past the seal of his lips, gathers a mixture of saliva and precum while fighting his tongue for the privilege of antagonizing the sensitive split of skin, and then draws away. Pulls a thin silvery thread of moisture that breaks when t stretches about three inches, but that doesn’t matter as the tip of that finger nudges it’s way between Doyle’s cheeks. Meets resistance, circles slowly to relax muscles, and pushes further as the inside of his cheeks brush the circumference of Doyle’s cock. He knows that Doyle can’t last much longer when he feels the twitching contraction of his balls.

The double stimulation of cock and anus proves too much. Semen shoots and Angel swallows most, but doesn’t prevent the thin trickle that slides down past his hand and collects in the cleft as he removes his finger. He tastes Doyle a second time when his tongue mimics the previous action of his finger, thrusting up into Doyle.

“God damn, Angel. Are you trying to kill me?” Ragged question asked through gritted teeth.

Angel sits up as Doyle rolls; hand stills the other man as he reaches to pull up his forgotten jeans. Slight shake of his head and an enigmatic smile is met with a surprised leer. “No,” Angel says.

Doyle nods, takes them all the way off and pushes them off the bed with his foot. He turns around and walks up the bed on his knees, intent on pulling back the sheets, but the minute his back is turned, Angel slides behind him, sandwiching Doyle between his chest and the wall. One hand braces against the wall, one crosses over Doyle’s chest, pulling him back against him.

One whispered plea spoken into the shoulder blade in front of him, “Doyle?”

The Irishman raises one knee, and reaches behind him. He finds Angel hard and ready, and guides him in, hisses between his teeth as their bodies fit together.

Experimental jut of Angel’s hips, and he quickly finds the proper pace. “ God, Doyle,” A strange, keening whine that vibrates low in his throat, fights its way into the moist air between them. He braces Doyle’s shoulders, holds him steady as they rock together. Doyle is tight against the wall, elbows locked, as he pushes back to meet Angel’s thrusts. And the sweat is trickling down, covering both of them, stinging his eyes and filling the air in the small space until he feels like his lungs are inhaling it, making the space more claustrophobic than ever.

And it’s the best thing, to celebrate this chance to be alive and breathing.

~*~*~*~

“Oh, here. Here’s something.” Wesley stood up, book cradled in his arms as he held it.

“What already? It’s about time!” Cordelia sprang up from her position sitting on Angel’s legs and joined him, trying to read the paragraph his finger pointed to.

He wrestled the book away from her and blocked her with his shoulder as he read,” The antidote is made from collecting some of the beast’s saliva from the wound, mixing it with some herbs listed here, and having the victim…uh…drink it.”

“Ugh. Okay, hello lunch. What do we need?”

“I think we have most of these ingredients here, take off that bandage and we’ll see if we can obtain a sample. Gunn, can you hold him still long enough?”

“I think so, he’s quieter now. I don’t know how you’re gonna get him to drink anything though.” The vampire *wasn’t* bucking as hard, it looked like it was kind of easier for Gunn to keep him on the couch. He held his body poised, ready to bring his body down from straight above if Angel starting to thrash around again.

Wesley was already rummaging through the waist high supply cabinet, pulling out assorted vials and jars of exotic herbs and spices that would be needed. He looked up at Cordelia. “The sample,” he reminded.

“Why do I always get the gross jobs?” At his annoyed look, she added, “I’m not complaining, just a statement of personal justification. When The Powers That Be retire us, I *WANT* a gold watch.”

She waved her hand, indicating that Gunn give her some space. He shifted his body, with a long-suffering grimace, barely holding his opinion of what she could do with her orders. If this weren’t for Angel, he definitely would have. Cordelia snagged a corner of the tape with a fingernail, flicking at the sticky residue to coax it to release. A small portion came loose and she eased the rest of it off. When the gauze was lifted, she and Gunn both leaned back and coughed at the odor coming from the injury. Thick and raw, it kind of smelled like the pier on a bad day-hot and fishy enough to make your eyes water. Something dead.

Shiny membrane and white globs of fat, it looked bigger than last time, like the flesh was eroding away. There was still that heavy skum of yellow oily fluid oozing out against the pallor of skin that seemed even too waxy for a vampire. She wrinkled her nose and collected some more on a fresh square of gauze, handed it up and over her shoulder, where Wesley received it and started sprinkling the necessary herbs into it.

~*~*~*~*~

Early morning, he sits on the beach, takes in the marine air, and the flurry of activity from the residents of the habitat. Is there anything as peaceful as surrendering your mind to the lulling crash of waves on rock? Even the loud screeching of ocean birds can’t break the dreamy mood.

He can’t quite bring himself to say that everything was worth this, won’t dismiss nearly two and a half centuries in a few short hours, but this is a nice way to end it. A conclusion that could paint over the deeds of the past, dulling them with a haze of contented peace. Relegate them to a place, where they only surface occasionally, prodded to the fore by anniversaries, milestones of a reign of terror kept hidden and ignored, until they refused to be disregarded.

He could chose to be here right now, surrounding himself with this landscape, with Doyle’s easy acceptance and playful spirit. As if sheer determination could buy his freedom. He’s tried that before, but never before with the apparent blessing of The Powers That Be.

So the question is: is he really free? Is this a false sense of security that he’s feeling?

The sun is rising higher, its nonfatal light cascading down to Earth, reflecting on the water. He squints his eyes against the air, and hears a noise behind him. Half turns as Doyle joins him, wraps arms clad in a thick knit sweater around Angel’s neck, and gives him one sweet kiss in that hollow of skin just behind his right ear. “Here ya are. I was looking all over for ya.”

“It’s one room, couldn’t have been looking that hard.” Angel’s fascinated by a crack in the smooth, bleached surface of his log seat. Determined masses of black ants teem around the fissure, persistent in their devotion. Arriving, departing. He breaks off a piece of the opening, increasing the gap. The insect numbers double.

Doyle ignores him, inhales deeply and squints against the morning sun reflected on water. “Should’a known you’d be moping down here on the beach.”

“Just thinking.” He shakes his hand, brushing one of the black insects off of his knuckle.

“Well there’s a surprise,” Doyle taps Angel’s skull with his middle finger. “Give it a rest once in awhile, or it’ll explode.”

Weak smile. Angel redirects his consideration. “I guess I just can’t help thinking about what comes next?”

“Well no more LA, that’s for sure. Man, what a hell hole that place was.”

A hellhole yes, but one he’s carved his own little niche in, a space with friends and memories, pleasant ones too. Also one plagued by shit like Wolfram & Hart, like Russell Winter, like the lifeless body of a girl he’d sworn to protect…and failed. So that’s the choice is it? Everlasting struggle, watching those mortals you’ve allowed close to die one by one, or Nirvana, let them go and try not to think how they’ll fare alone? It’s not an unfamiliar choice. At least this time it wouldn’t involve living on rats in filthy alleys.

“I can’t help but feel like I’m deserting my post.” He stares morosely at the bizarre pattern of drying seaweed, older brown and recent, moist green mingling together. Maybe Wesley, Cordelia and Gunn wouldn’t miss him that much, might be relieved to be free of him?

Doyle sighs, unwinds his arms, and comes around to sit next to the former vampire. Thigh to thigh, he leans forward, trying to peer around into those brown eyes. “A replacement can always be called.”

Angel’s lost a few souls since his tenure in LA, and can’t help wonder if The Powers That Be have found a more competent champion, someone to step into his shoes, to watch over Cordelia, someone to antagonize Wesley, and posture against Gunn. Maybe someone with a little better batting average than he’s had so far?

“So I should just give up? I haven’t really done any good yet. Wolfram and Hart still exists, there’s so many people still in trouble. What the hell have I really done, what difference have I made?”

Doyle shakes his head in disbelief at the stubborn, self-depreciating attitude that is usually not part of a hero’s make up.” Angel, the world has already been changed by your journey.”

Angel starts to argue, but stops in mid sentence. He’s not thinking about body counts or battles, but about the lives he’s intimately touched. He can’t stop the comparisons between a cheerleader he could barely tolerate and the resourceful, strong woman who’s smile pulled him back from the brink of more than one downward spiral, or, Wesley, who’s definitely grown a pair, and will make a fine leader with some more experience. Even Gunn’s changed from the suspicious renegade fighting a losing battle with no resources. Well, maybe Gunn hasn’t changed so much, but Gunn will always survive where he’s planted.

Angel’s not so arrogant to take credit entirely, but he’s had some influence? He’s helped shape other fighters who will carry on with or without him. And for the first time, he gets the feeling that he can relax. He’ll worry, sure, but he’s optimistic about the future of the world. Maybe it’s not such a cesspool after all; there might be some hope.

Green eyes watch him closely. “There are others who will carry on your fight.”

Angel stands, and extends a hand to his companion. “I’m the father of a movement? I guess that will take some getting used to as well?”

They stroll along the water’s edge, and Angel thinks it’ll take quite a while to re memorize that particular shade of blue that stretches overhead. Will he ever become blasé about it? Right now, it just seems like a miracle. And that’s probably what he should call it after all.

While climbing over an outcropping of rock, Angel prepares to get a footing, but pulls back as his toe touches something. The body of a seal is wedged in a narrow aperture, obviously dead. The memory of one playing in the surf when he first arrived crosses his mind. Is this the same one?

“Jesus, what died!” Doyle comes behind, sees the diversion. “Oh look.” He points to a wound in the creature’s side. “Looks like something got it.”

Its flank is a mess of torn flesh, with shiny membrane and white globs of fat spilling out of the gap. There was a heavy scum of yellow oily fluid oozing from the injury, and a terrible, rotting smell. It was obviously in an advanced stage of decomposition, and looked like its flesh was eroding away. So it it’s impossible that it is the same animal?

“Poor bugger,” Doyle sympathizes. “Someone won’t be coming home tonight.”

“No, I guess not,” Angel agrees as he finds a better footing and begins climbing over the rocks again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Hold his head,” Cordelia ordered as her fingers struggled to hold the fat beaker in her hand. Who the hell just had a beaker lying around for Christ’s sake? Wesley, that’s who. The same man who just happened to have stinky herbs for obscure vampire healing rituals lying around. Someone around here desperately needed to find a life, and as the one attempting to force this crap through Angel’s clenched teeth, she probably should go to the head of that line.

“I’d suggest pinching his nose to make him open his mouth,” Wesley stood at Angel’s feet, staring at Cordelia’s attempts. At her withering glance, he added sheepishly, “ but I guess with the not breathing business, that wouldn’t be appropriate in this case.

“Maybe you two could save it for the honeymoon. He’s not getting any lighter here.” Gunn was obviously struggling to keep the vampire’s shoulders up, and head propped for Cordelia.

Cordelia still glaredat the former watcher. “Okay, I am trying here. No one seems to appreciate the fact that it’s really damn hard to…”

“What the fuck!” Gunn exclaimed with obvious horror.

Cordelia spun around and gaped in shock as Angel’s cheeks began to sink in, his whole face was imploding.

“What is this shit?” Gunn was already backing away, letting Angel’s shoulders drop as the situation proved too much for him.

Wesley’s “Oh God.” Was pretty much ignored as the three watched Angel’s body settle into dust on the couch.

The beaker dropped from Cordelia’s hand as she started crying. She instinctively turned to Wesley, who pulled her into his chest and held her close against his chest. He cleared his throat as if to say something, but couldn’t manage to get anything past the lump in his throat. This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen.

Gunn brought a hand to rest against Cordelia’s back in some gesture of comfort, but he couldn’t take his eyes off where Angel had been only moments before.

END