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Doyle flipped the light switch and walked into the room. "Moping in the dark again, eh?"
Angel smiled. Lately, it no longer bothered him to be reminded of the old country, and he actually enjoyed hearing Dublin in Doyle's accent. "It's in my job description, an unavoidable part of being the dark and brooding guy."
"C'mon, man, can't you at least do it in a different room now and then, mix it up a little?"
"Why bother? In the dark, all of them look the same."
Doyle perched on the edge of the desk. "Oh, I don't know, variety maybe?"
Doyle was beaming, nearly luminous, and Angel remembered the slight swagger in his walk to the desk. //Someone had a good night.// Doyle dressed about the same as Whistler--the other, full, demon who'd helped Angel, taken him off the streets and given him a purpose--had. It made him wonder if the ones assigned to him had a uniform of sorts. Tonight Doyle wore a black leather coat instead of one of the brown ones; that and the deep blue shirt he had on brought out his pale skin, black hair, light green eyes... //Stop that.// Split lip?
"Where did you get that?" Angel asked.
"What?"
"Your bottom lip."
"I was born with one, much like anyone--"
"You know what I mean."
"Brawl. I didn't go about starting it, but I helped finish it." Doyle grinned harder. "Nipped three free drinks in the confusion. Anyway, afterward I decided to call it an early night."
"Someone still hit you."
"It just got a bit chaotic with all the people involved. I'm half demon, half Irish. I can handle myself in a pub fight."
"You are such a stereotype," Angel said but with fondness.
"Says the vampire who sits brooding in the dark. A bit of pot calling kettle there." Doyle smirked. "Hey, once people think they have you pegged, you can get away with a lot."
"This brawl thing wouldn't be a cover story, would it?"
"For what, may I ask?"
"I'm just wondering if any of your other loansharks sent some muscle after you to rough you up, and this is a way to hide it." It took effort to keep any tone of accusation out of it, but Angel knew that a warm tone worked better on Doyle. Besides, he enjoyed the banter.
"I would tell you."
"Would you? You didn't last time."
"And that was still a dirty trick you pulled to get it out of me. I'm good."
"I'm here to help, if you need it." //I'm also here for when you're ready to tell me how you reached this point, why you live the way you do. What are you atoning for?// Angel would be more than happy to help. No one threatened his friends. He still felt like snarling when he remembered that thug Griffin asking him why he would care what happened to a "little demon half-breed."
"I know, and I appreciate your head busting skills as ever. But this was just a pub brawl. You can even smell me if you'd like."
"I already do."
"Shite. Sorry, man."
"No, it's not like that. It's a vampire thing. I'm more sensitive." To Angel's vampire sense, Doyle exuded Scotch, beer, cigarette smoke, leather, Doyle's own half-demon, half-human scent, and, underneath it all, the slight but heady aroma of blood. He smelled mouthwateringly, wonderfully warm and alive. "Besides, you always smell like a pub."
"If somebody was threatening me, d'ya think I'd waltz in here with a big grin on my face?"
Angel's smile sharpened. "You would if you wanted to fool me."
Doyle leaned closer. "Suspicious bastard, ain't ya?"
"That's how I've survived this long."
Doyle opened his mouth to say something else, but nothing came out. His eyes no longer seemed to see what was in front of him...
"Doyle!" Angel grabbed him before the first seizure would have knocked him off the desk, then carried him to the couch, where he'd be less likely to hurt himself. His wiry body trembled and arced in Angel's arms as if he were being repeatedly struck by lightning. Veins stood out enticingly in his neck, and he panted under the strain of his vision.
Finally, it all started to subside. "I'm fine. I'm fine," Doyle whispered in a choked voice.
"Is it over?" Angel asked softly.
"Yeah, yeah," Doyle gasped. "That was a bad one... Yeah, they all are, but that was worse than usual." He closed his eyes. "Six p.m. Phil Farrand. A small club named The Living End. I couldn't see the evil involved, as usual."
Angel put his hand to the side of Doyle's sweat-slick face. "Don't worry. That's good enough."
Doyle tried to catch his breath. "Hey, let's look on the bright side, right? An hour earlier, and stroking out like this would have gotten me killed."
Angel realized that he was hovering far closer to Doyle than he'd realized. He had his hand resting along Doyle's cheekbone and jawline and a thumb stroking the heated skin. His other hand gripped and caressed a worn leather lapel. This close, senses drowning in Doyle's physical presence, Angel realized that he hadn't distanced himself emotionally as much as he should have. His affection had crossed the line into something deeper already, and that was the worst thing he could do for himself or the people around him. Only a soul kept his dark, murderous self buried, and only emotional and physical distance kept that soul.
Doyle just looked at Angel with his own emotions clear in every mobile line of his fine-boned face, as usual. Only a thin rim of pale green remained around dilated pupils. It wasn't the first time he'd looked at Angel with such obvious affection and want, only the first time Angel had been in such close range at the time.
They both moved into the kiss. Given the contact he'd denied himself for so long, Angel felt the need for more devour him alive. At least "true happiness" had nothing to do with this; it was all terror, love, hunger, lust...
Angel tasted Scotch on Doyle's tongue, and for a moment everything faded away, leaving him still young and free and mortal. But the pressure of their kissing reopened the split in Doyle's lower lip, and another part of Angel roared back to life. The blood tasted as sharp and exotically spicy as Doyle's skin smelled. Delicious and unfamiliar. He needed more and sucked at the small wound harder. A sound somewhere between a purr and a growl rumbled deep in his throat.
"Angel," Doyle moaned.
But he needed even more, and Doyle's jugular was so enticing... No. No. Pulling away felt like fighting gravity, but Angel finally succeeded. "No. We can't do this," Angel said. "We can't do this because of the curse, and we can't do it because I came this close to gnawing on your neck." It frightened him how close he'd come to giving in and risking the curse. How far would he have taken it if that open wound hadn't engaged his more immediately dangerous instincts?
But he still hadn't let go of Doyle, with one hand caressing soft hair and the other soft leather.
Doyle seemed in no hurry to get loose either, and he had his hands clenched in Angel's sweater. "Right. The curse. Y'know, I have a splitting headache anyway. Really."
But they still held on to one another. Angel said, "We should--"
"Yeah, we should. Uhm. I can't move with you leaning on me like this."
"Right."
The outer door banged, and Angel sprang away. Cordelia came in and set some shopping bags down. She took a long look around that had Doyle nearly cringing under her gaze and said, "Finally!"
"What?" Angel asked. //Please let her be as oblivious as usual.//
"Doyle finally had another vision. We have another case. I do need a raise after all."
"I think we have a case."
"Great. Good job, Doyle," she said as she patted him on the head.
"Ow! Thanks, Princess," Doyle answered. "Just watch the head, okay?" He slowly stood up, moving as if he feared he would fall apart after any sudden motion. "I'm calling it a night. Did my bit."
"Doyle," Angel said. Doyle looked back, his heart in his eyes. But all Angel could say at that moment, with Cordelia there, was, "Be careful and get some rest."
Doyle nodded, then winced. "Yeah, thanks."
//I'd say this is about as far from "true happiness" as I can get.//