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The cement under his fingers is cold, and
the fingertips of his right hand are raw against
the pavement. He can't see because he's not
looking, but he knows he's leaving little bloody fingerprints.
Angel'd be able to smell them.
* * *
Doyle closed the door after Angel'd left, throwing the new deadbolt behind him. Might as well use it, since he'd gone to the trouble of putting it in and all.
The conversation with Angel had left him shaken - not in any tangible sense, but deep down in the pit of his stomach, where nagging worries liked to hang out until he drowned them in whiskey. And that thought just added to the shaky feeling, to the point where he needed to quiet it. Didn't matter that he should lay off the stuff - Harry'd told him so dozens of times, and the more times she'd said it, the quicker he'd gone to grab himself another beer. Thinking about stopping was scarier than what might happen if he didn't.
Heading into the kitchen, Doyle opened the cupboard to reveal a bottle of booze with a pitiful inch and a half of golden liquid in the bottom. Inconvenient, that, not that there was ever a good time to run out of liquor.
He sighed and went back to the living room, grabbing his coat from the chair where he'd dropped it earlier. At least he was lucky there was a shop right around the corner, which had come in handy on more than one occasion when he'd needed more drink and hadn't been in any condition to drive.
Doyle unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway, then realized that the new key for the deadbolt was still in the package and had to go back for it. He locked the place up tight and headed down the dimly lit hallway, stepping out into night air that was a little bit colder than he'd anticipated.
Pulling his coat closed and doing up the top button, Doyle started down the stairs only to hear a bang and feel the icy whoosh of something fly past his face. Instinctively he ducked away from it, his body - already bruised from the earlier fight with the Kailiff demons - aching as he glanced around and caught sight of the guy that had busted into Cordy's new place earlier. The human one.
Even as this registered, the guy took aim again with his gun and fired. This time the bullet ricocheted off the building just behind him, breaking chips off the wall and, Doyle hoped, not ending up inside someone's apartment. He didn't have time to think about anything more than that because he was already moving toward the guy, faster than he would have thought possible.
His fist connected with the guy's face, but before he could do anything else the man swung the gun and hit Doyle upside the head with it, knocking his feet out from under him. He hit the ground hard, stunned for a second, then rolled just in time to avoid being shot. There was a jolt as he slammed into the guy's legs, which resulted in the man's full weight dropping down onto him and knocking the wind out of him.
The gun skittered off a few feet, and without hesitation Doyle dragged himself forward, taking the guy with him for the ride and what felt like all the skin off his fingers at the same time. He closed his hand around the gun and rolled, out from under his attacker, pointing it at the man with both hands to keep it steady.
Backing away with his own hands held up, the guy struggled to his feet.
"Didn't learn your lesson from earlier in the day, did ya?" Doyle growled, trying to ignore the trickle of blood running down over his temple.
"H-he told me not to come back unless you were dead."
"Looks like you'll be needing to find a new job then." Doyle got up onto his own knees, hoping he didn't look as shaky as he felt, keeping the gun trained on the guy. He had no intention of shooting him unless he did something really stupid, but he didn't want that to be common knowledge, so he added, "I could send you back with a souvenir, if you think that'd help."
The man shook his head, backing up some more. "No. No, I'm... I'm going, okay?"
Doyle could taste blood in his mouth - guy must have hit him on the way down or something. "Go on. Get out of here."
He waited until he couldn't hear the guy's footsteps anymore before he let the arm holding the gun drop. Ought to get rid of it - no good could come of having it on his person, after all - but at the moment, all he cared about was staying conscious. The world tilted a bit, and Doyle dropped back down, letting his hands support some of his weight. There was a grinding pain in his knuckles where two of his fingers were caught between the gun and the pavement, and that actually helped.
Knowing he wasn't thinking clearly, Doyle staggered to his feet, tucked the gun into the back of his trousers, and started to walk the four blocks to the office. There was more fear that somebody else'd be waiting for him back at his apartment than there was that he'd be followed, and the need to get somewhere safe was strong.
He only hoped Angel'd be in when he got there.
* * *
There's a steady stream of blood running down the side of his face, but he can't spare the energy to wipe it away. Not like he has anything to wipe it with anyway not like he carries a handkerchief or anything. He's only an old fashioned guy in the ways that count.
His breathing sounds harsh and labored in his ears, and he has to pause and lean against the nearest wall for a minute before he can continue on.
* * *
Angel sighed and dropped his shoulders, letting his duster slide down and off, catching it and hanging it up just inside the door. It had been a long day way too long, and too much social stuff that he just wasn't equipped to deal with and all he wanted now was to take a long, hot shower and go to bed.
Rubbing the back of his neck wearily, he went over to the coffee machine and shut it off. Cordelia basically never remembered, and if he didn't, he'd wake up in the morning with the acrid smell of burnt pot and dregs wafting down into his apartment, and he'd have to drag himself upstairs before he was really awake to deal with it. On two occasions so far the glass carafe had failed to survive the incident, and he wasn't crazy about the idea of having to replace the thing a third time.
He hoped Doyle was getting some sleep. There was more going on there than Doyle was ready to talk about heck, he'd admitted that much and Angel knew about the kinds of things that haunted people that way. He knew that the reason that he hadn't kicked Doyle out of his life in the first place, in addition to the visions, was because he could see so much of himself in the man.
Some time later, Angel realized that he was still standing there, leaning against the door frame, staring at nothing while he thought about Doyle.
Sighing again, he was just about to flick off the lights and head for the elevator when he thought he heard something.
* * *
There are four stone steps at the front of the building, but it feels more like twenty.
There's a dim echo in the back of his head telling him he should have called Angel, but he has to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. On the top step, he waivers and has to lean his weight forward so he doesn't fall.
It takes a long time to get the door open.
* * *
Doyle stumbled and lost his balance in the hall right outside the office, but he didn't hit the floor. He thought he was going to was bracing for it, actually but instead, strong arms grabbed onto him, keeping him mostly upright.
Angel.
His head spinning, Doyle didn't know what was happening for a few seconds, but then he was on the couch in the office with Angel kneeling on the floor in front of him, one big, cool hand on the side of his face.
"What happened?" Angel asked worriedly, his fingers coming away stained with blood.
"One of the guys from this afternoon decided to pay me another visit," Doyle managed to say, wondering if Angel being so close to all this blood was a good idea. He could feel the gun digging into the small of his back, but he didn't care right then whether he did anything about it or not.
Angel went away for a minute, then he was back, pressing a cloth to Doyle's head and keeping it there. He sat next to Doyle on the couch, his weight making the cushion sink down, and when Doyle tipped against him as a result there wasn't the strength to do anything about that either. "Do you want to go to the hospital?" Angel asked. His hand, or where the heel of it was pressed to Doyle's temple, at least, felt cool. Comforting.
"Does it look that bad?" Doyle didn't like the idea of the hospital, not if it wasn't totally necessary. For one thing, he didn't have any insurance what kind of civilized country didn't provide medical care? and for another, he just... didn't like the idea. Not when there'd be questions and assumptions and he'd have to figure out what to say.
"I don't know," Angel said. His touch was firm, but gentle. "Look at me, would you?"
Without moving his head, Doyle swiveled his eyes to meet Angel's brown ones. "What?"
"I want to see if your eyes look... no, I think they're okay." Angel still looked worried, though, and there was something about that that was... comforting. "You want to lie down?"
Doyle thought about pointing out that he was already practically lying across Angel's lap, but he didn't know how that'd sound. "I'm okay," he said instead.
"Not really," Angel said. "But the bleeding's stopping, so you will be. Unless your skull's broken."
"Good thing I've got a hard head," Doyle joked. Too bad it fell kind of flat. There was a dull ache behind his temples and it hurt to focus his eyes, so he closed them and leaned against Angel just a little bit more, pretending like he didn't know he was doing it. Angel didn't seem to mind just sat there, solid and reassuring. Doyle concentrated on his breathing, in and out through his nose, and didn't realize until it was too late that he was falling asleep.
* * *
In his dreams, they're in bed together, the both of them stark naked, skin on skin making him achingly hard. There's nothing like it, the feel of smooth, cool flesh against his cock. The feel of a cool, strong mouth against his own.
* * *
When Doyle woke up, he wasn't sure where he was for a few seconds. In a bed, sure, but he could tell it wasn't his own, and he couldn't remember the last place he'd been. Then he moved and felt the dull ache in his head flare into something more painful, and he groaned and curled up.
"You okay?" he heard Angel ask.
"Other than the fact that I'm dying? Yeah." Doyle turned and opened his eyes. Angel was sitting in a chair next to the bed. His bed. "Please tell me you didn't carry me down here," he said.
"Uh... I didn't carry you down here?" Angel said unconvincingly.
"Thanks," Doyle muttered, reaching tentative fingers up to touch the cut on his head and finding a bandage there. "What time's it?"
Angel leaned forward and set the book he'd been holding on the bedside table. "After midnight. If you didn't wake up pretty soon I was going to try throwing cold water on you."
Doyle winced at the thought. "Thanks," he said again. "You're a real pal."
"I thought you might slip into a coma or something," Angel said. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"
"Slip into a coma?" Doyle repeated.
"No, wake someone up when they have a concussion," Angel said.
Doyle groaned softly. "Yeah, I think so. Not that I want to experiment with this again." He struggled to a sitting position. "You could have left me on the couch."
"I thought you'd be more comfortable down here." Angel got up and sat back down on the side of the bed, looking intently at Doyle. "How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked, lifting his hand.
"Three," Doyle said. It still hurt to focus his eyes, but he didn't think he was in any danger of being unconscious. He was just tired. Sleeping it off, that was the way to go. "You mind giving me a lift back to my place?"
"Not if you don't mind me hanging out there until I'm sure you're okay," Angel said.
"I don't need a babysitter," Doyle said, more sharply than he'd intended to.
"Maybe not," Angel said. "But you do need a friend."
The words hung in the air between them, heavier than Doyle's head felt. He didn't want this. Okay, he did, but he didn't want to want it, which was a whole different kettle of fish, and he was too tired to be playing with metaphors. "Thanks, man," he said finally, reaching out a hand and patting Angel's knee.
Angel hesitated, then set his own hand over Doyle's, his thumb sliding between Doyle's thumb and forefinger. "I don't want anything to happen to you," Angel said softly.
Doyle's mouth went suddenly, painfully dry. "Yeah. Well, I don't want anything to happen to me, either." He tilted his head and looked up at Angel, their eyes meeting. He wondered what Angel could see in his.
"Lie down," Angel said, touching Doyle's cheek. "Get some more sleep."
His head still aching, Doyle nodded. "Yeah. Okay." He lay down, watching as Angel shifted, giving him room to get settled. "Is that what we are?" he asked.
Angel looked confused. "What?"
Doyle knew he should shut up, but he couldn't help himself. "Friends. Is that what we are?" He wasn't even sure what he wanted the answer to be.
Angel's dark eyes were thoughtful, serious. "Yeah," the vampire said. "I thought we were. Aren't we?"
"Yeah," Doyle said, relaxing, because there was something in the way Angel was looking at him, like he was something much better to look at than Doyle knew he actually was, that was reassuring. That told Doyle there was a chance they could be more than friends.
He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
* * *
He knows that they still have a ways to go before they get there. But he
thinks there's time.
End.