TITLE: "Emergence: A Story of Doyle's Return (Crossover Fic)
AUTHOR: Jenny Kane 
DISTRIBUTION: Ask please
SPOILER WARNING: "Hero"
RATING: PG
PARTS: 11-end
CONTENT WARNING: Some violence, cursing
SUMMARY: One year post "Hero": Angel, Cordelia and Wesley discover that Doyle 
is not dead, but is in mortal peril. Can they get to him in time? Not without 
some help from Sunnydale.
FEEDBACK: Absolutely
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Buffy, Angel, Doyle and Company. They belong to Josh 
Whedon, David Greenwalt and the WB. No copyright infringement intended.


Chapter Eleven


      When they emerged from Giles' back room, Wesley was hovering outside, 
waiting for Angel. They went immediately over to Cordelia. Riley still sat on 
the other couch. Xander and Willow were talking in the kitchen. Spike was 
nowhere to be found.
      Giles walked up to stand by Buffy, just outside the door to the back room.
      "Well?" he inquired.
      "I don't know, Giles. He scares me right now." Buffy shook her head. 
"He really cares about this Doyle, a lot."
      "Yes, he certainly does," Giles said thoughtfully, looking across the 
room to where Angel stood talking to Wesley and Cordelia.
      "I've never seen him quite like this before," Buffy told him. "Except 
maybe two years ago, at Christmas, when he was seeing all those 'ghosts'. 
That really freaked him out. He was convinced that he was evil, that he was 
going to do evil. He was going to stand outside until the sun came up and 
burned him out of existence.  Remember?"
      "Yes, I remember," Giles replied, his eyes still on Angel. "And you're 
right, except for that time at Christmas, I've never seen him like this either."
      "It took a miracle to save him then, and it may take another miracle to 
save him now." Buffy, too, was looking at Angel, mixed emotions showing 
clearly in her eyes. "If we don't pull this off, Giles, this time he will 
kill himself. I know he will."        
      "If we don't pull this off, Buffy, my dear," Giles said. "The Scourge 
will do that for him . . . and us as well."
      Before Buffy could respond to that, Angel suddenly turned and walked to 
the center of the room, followed by Wesley and Cordelia. Everyone stopped 
what they were doing, and formed a circle around him.
      Angel's eyes were on fire, and his face was full of intense emotion, as 
he told them quietly, "The Beacon is complete."
      Silence for a moment, as that sunk in. Then Buffy took a deep breath 
and said, "Well, then, we need to move fast."
      "Yes, we do," Angel agreed. "The Demon doorway . . ."  
      "Yes, we're set up over here." Giles gestured toward the far end of the 
living room. Indeed, all was set up and ready to go.
      Angel turned, looked at Wesley. "Will this work?"
      "Yes, we have everything we need. All that's left is for you to summon 
the doorway."      "But I thought . . ."
      "We don't need to go to LA, Angel," Giles informed him. "We've got the 
supplies; we've got the password. That's all we need. It's the password that 
takes us to the Scourge, not the point of origin."      "And the demon guide?"
      "We won't summon him at all," Wesley answered. "We will variate the 
chant a little bit, use a different powder, and use the password. The guide 
won't come, only the doorway. And the path to the Scourge, of course."
      Silence for a moment, then Angel turned to look at each of them in turn:
      Wesley was watching him anxiously, and Angel knew he was worrying about 
whether Angel could keep it together through all this, and about how Cordelia 
was going to fare. Angel was worried about her himself; she was pale and 
shaky and, at present, was under an almost constant barrage of images from 
Doyle. Angel could tell that this latest one showing her the completion of 
the Beacon had shaken her to her core. Xander stood, weapons in hand, looking 
like he had on that Halloween night when he had been Soldier Guy, his face 
full of determination. Willow stood quietly with her bag of spells, ready to 
do whatever she could. Giles' face was inscrutable, and Angel couldn't bring 
himself to look him directly in the face anyway. Riley stood silent and tall, 
looking like the commando he was, armed and ready for action. And Buffy, her 
bag slung over one shoulder, had that 'slayer' look in her eyes, meaning that 
she was ready for anything.
      Angel took a deep breath and then spoke, "Before we do this, I just 
want to thank you all. I don't know what's going to happen tonight, or if 
we'll all survive, but I do know this: we've all done battle together 
numerous times, and we've won more times than we've lost, so I know I 
couldn't have a better team on my side then I do right here. If anybody can 
pull this off, we can."
      "Damn straight," Xander said. "Now lets go kick some Scourge butt, and 
save our friend, Doyle." Angel looked at him. "Well, it feels like he's my 
friend." Xander then looked sheepish. "And I'm sorry about the dead boy bit. 
If we survive this, I promise not to call you that anymore. Not that I see 
you that often."
      "Even though it's true?" Angel asked archly, raising his eyebrows at him.
      "A technicality," Xander grinned. "Now let's do this."
      "Yeah," Buffy said, striking a match, handing it to Angel. "Let's go."
      Angel nodded as he took the match, their eyes met in that old, familiar 
way. He drew strength from it. He turned and lit the fire. They all gathered 
around him as he summoned the Demon Doorway, doing it the same way as before, 
until he came to the last line. Then he threw a special powder into the fire 
as he said, "Demon Doorway open to me, take me to the place I seek. Kana."
      They all watched as the smoke did its thing, and the doorway opened, 
minus, as promised, the demon guide.
      "Okay, let's go." Angel led the way, stepping through into the 
ink-black darkness. He was followed by Buffy, Wesley, supporting the shaky, 
image riddled Cordelia, then Giles, Xander and Willow. Riley, after taking 
one last look at Giles' apartment--the real world; he wondered if he'd ever 
see it again--entered last. The doorway closed behind him.


Chapter Twelve


      Their path was illuminated by that same eerie, green light whose source
could not be identified. They were all silent as they moved rapidly through
the passageway, each concentrating, in their own way, on the near impossible
task ahead of them.
Concentration was broken, and all movement stopped, when Cordelia suddenly
let out a terrified scream, slid from Wesley's supporting arm, and fell to
her knees, hands pressed against her forehead. "No, no. I can't take this.
Angel . . ."
      Angel was there, on his knees beside her, one hand on each of her
shoulders. "What is it?"
      Cordelia lowered her hands, raised her head to look at him. The eerie
light gave her pale skin a sickly glow, and the tears flowing down her cheeks
appeared green. Her voice shook and cracked as she said, "They're... they're 
taking him . . . taking him to the Beacon. Out of his cell. He's trying to 
fight them, but he's too weak; he can't. They're taking him. Angel..." 
Cordelia lapsed into sobs.
      Silence all around. Angel was kept speechless by the images he was
creating in his own mind. Doyle...
      It was Buffy who took charge of the moment. Still rather floored by
Cordelia's compassion and caring toward this half-demon, she knelt beside
her, shook her a little, and said in a sharp voice, "Cordelia, listen to me.
Concentrate!" She gave her a harder shake as Cordelia continued to sob
softly. "Cordelia!" Cordelia looked up at her. "I know this is hard, but you
have got to tell us what you see. Where are they taking him? What does it
look like?"
      Cordelia drew a deep breath. She knew Buffy was right. Her voice was
barely above a whisper, but she did answer, "Lots of stairs. They're dragging
him up to the top. There's a right turn, then down a long, huge, echoey-like
hallway. It's weird. It's yellow, but not like paint. It's like a bright,
yellow light. The color, it . . . pulsates."
      "Down a long, yellow hall," Buffy murmured. "What's down the hall? Are
there doorways?" Cordelia nodded. "Good. Count them. How many? Where do they
take him?"
      Cordelia struggled to hold on. Doyle's fear and panic and pain were
overwhelming her, but she knew they needed this information . . . or Doyle
might die. "One, two . . ." she counted as they passed doorways, "three,
four, five . . . fifth doorway, turning left . . ." She gave a gasp. "Oh
God!" She fainted into Angel's arms.
      Silence again. Everyone looked at each other for a minute, trying to
assimilate what was happening. Angel was desperately pushing away the panic
rising within him. What had she seen? What had they done to him? He gently
lifted Cordelia into his arms.   "Let's go."
      "Yes, and quickly," Wesley said. "It seems were out of time."
      No other words were necessary. They all began running through the
green-black tunnels toward their destination.
      Abruptly, they came to the end of the line. There was a solid black
wall in front of them. Angel took a deep breath, and said, "Kana."
      Just as before, the blackness in front of them shimmered, became
transparent; the image began to form, bigger and bigger . . . clearer and
clearer . . . until the doorway opened . . . the doorway to the Scourge.
      Before them lay the compound, still heavily guarded, still with heavy
security, but there was something different about it. It seemed more lax,
more like the guards were just milling around and not doing as intense a job
of watching their posts. It seemed like there was more 'busy work' activity
than before . . . in honor of Doyle's execution?
      The thought propelled Angel through the doorway. He was still carrying
Cordelia in his arms. The ground was rough with dead grass and large clumps
of dirt and rocks. The others flowed out of the doorway behind him.
      Riley came up to stand beside Angel, gave a low whistle as he said,
"You weren't kidding. This place is a fortress. This may not be so easy."
      "We just need to find the best, safest place to get in," Angel replied,
looking for a secure spot to put Cordelia. He found a small alcove not far
from the Demon Doorway. He laid her down gently, then went back to where
Riley and Buffy were standing.
      Wesley went to sit with Cordelia. He was thankful that she was
unconscious and hoped she remained that way until they could get Doyle out
safely.      Willow, Giles and Xander gathered rocks to mark the Demon Doorway
entrance. It had closed behind them.
      Angel, Buffy and Riley scanned the immense building they found
themselves confronted with, trying to find the best way to infiltrate it.
High electric fencing and barbed wire surrounded the complex.
      "First, we've got to get the fence turned off," Riley said, and nodded
at an electrical box he had spotted. It was inside the fence, near the far
end of the building, "And I think that far entrance is our best bet. It's
less heavily guarded and gives us a better, more covert way to approach it."
      "I agree," Angel said, and Buffy nodded. "But what about the fence?"
      "Leave that to me." Riley was gone, moving stealthily toward the far
end of the building.
      Angel, Buffy et al. walked to where Wesley sat with Cordelia. She was
still unconscious, but was murmuring in an agitated way. Angel knelt down
beside them.
      Wesley looked up at Angel, knowing what he was about to say. "Wesley, I
need you to stay here with her. You've both done all you can, and I'm more
grateful than I can say, to both of you." He handed Wesley a gun and a small
tape recorder. "I've taped myself saying the chant and the password. If it
gets too hot out here or you think you've waited long enough, play it, open
the Doorway, and get out of here. And. . . ." He looked down at Cordelia,
"take care of her, Wesley." He started to get up, but Wesley grabbed his arm,
pulled him back down.
      "I will, of course," he said, meeting Angel's eyes, "But you will be
back. With Doyle."
      They regarded each other for a moment. Then Angel nodded, turned to the
others. "Let's go."
      The five of them ran the length of the fence to where Riley was
standing. He had his stun gun, it was a handy little device, out, and was
adjusting controls. "I can open the box silently and then de-electrify just
this part of the fence. They," he nodded at the guards, "shouldn't notice
anything. They're not being that diligent anyway."
      He was right. The guards were spending a lot of time talking and
bantering to each other, like they were at a party. Weapons were held
haphazardly, or not at all.
      "Well," Angel said. "The Beacon's done. I guess they feel like
celebrating."
      "It probably makes them feel pretty invincible as well," Giles
commented. "Which could work to our advantage."
      "Exactly," Riley said, aiming his gun and pushing a button. One short,
silent pulse shot out, hit the electrical box's door, and opened it. Riley
got out his night-vision goggles and scanned the inside of the box. "Right
there." Another pulse suddenly hit the inside of the box--sparks flew. Riley
put away the stun gun and goggles. "There, this section of the fence is down.
Do we go over it or through it?"
      "Through it," Xander said, producing wire cutters. He went to the
section of the fence Riley had pointed to and began cutting. They were beyond
the building, hidden in shadows. There was a more lightly guarded entrance
toward the end of the building that they planned to go through. Xander kept
his eye on it, and on the guards around it, as he continued to cut the fence.
The others stayed hidden until he had cut a hole wide enough for them to fit
through. Then, one at a time, they slipped through the opening, ran across
the uneven ground until they were all lined up, breathing heavily, against
the wall, just around the corner from the entrance.
      "All right," Angel whispered. "Buffy, Riley and I will take out the
guards. You three get inside as quickly as you can. Wait for us there."
      Everyone nodded, adrenaline pumping. Angel, Buffy and Riley slid to the
edge of the wall. Angel looked around the corner, toward the entrance.
"There's five of them. I've got two . . ." He disappeared around the corner.
      "Me too." This from Buffy as she followed him.
      "I'll take whatever's left, if anything," Riley muttered, and he, too,
went around the corner.
      As battles go, this one was short and sweet. The sentries had been
paying little attention to their jobs, and were taken totally off guard.
Giles, Xander and Willow slipped easily into the building, and were soon
joined by Angel, Buffy and Riley.
      "That was almost too easy," Riley complained.
      "Don't count on it staying that way," Giles told him. Angel remained
silent, but he agreed with Riley. Too easy.      "Now where?" Willow asked.
      There was only one way they could go. A long flight of stairs led up.
"Let's go," Angel said, starting up.
      At the top of the stairs, there was a landing, a sharp turn, then
another flight of stairs.      "Look!" Willow whispered.
      At the top of this flight of stairs, they could see a yellow, pulsating
light.      "This is it!  This has to be it!" Buffy cried softly.
      They all bolted up the stairs, into the hallway Cordelia had described:
huge, echoey, empty, with a brilliant, fluorescent, yellow light, that did
indeed seem to pulsate and flow, filling the hallway as far as their eyes
could see.      "Which way?" Xander asked, for the hall seemed endless in both
directions.
      "It seems stronger this way." Willow indicated to the right. "And do
you hear the hum?"
      They could. There was a low, continuous, monotonous humming sound, also
coming from the same direction as the pulsating light.
      "Let's go," said Angel, wondering at the silent, empty hallway. No
Scourge demons could be seen or heard. He would have expected . . .
      Buffy was thinking the same thing, but said, "Five doorways," and
interrupted Angel's thoughts, as they cautiously walked down the hallway.
Riley kept lookout to the rear, Xander one side, Giles the other, Buffy and
Angel in front of them. Willow stayed in the middle.
      "Five doorways, Cordelia said," Buffy went on, "But, five doorways from
where?"
      "I don't know," Angel replied, frustrated. Doyle could be dead by now.
      "It's like in the Wizard of Oz," Willow whispered to Xander as they
walked.  "Walking down that long, creepy hall to see the Wizard. Only it's
yellow instead of green."
      "Looks like were not in Kansas anymore," Xander agreed, then, "Hey!" He
stopped dead in his tracks. Riley ran right into him. They all turned to him.
      "What?" Angel asked.
      Xander didn't reply, but his eyes met Angel's as he pointed to the
stairwell they were passing; it came from the depths below them. The floor
and all the steps that led up to it were spattered with drops of blood.
      "Oh my God," Giles breathed.
      "Doyle." Angel had to fight the sickness rising within him.
      Buffy put a hand on his arm to steady him. "This is where they brought
him up," she said, looked up at Angel--their eyes met. "Five doorways from
here, and to the left. We've almost got him, Angel."
      They all looked down the hallway, could see the trail of blood that
would lead them to Doyle, but would he be alive? Buffy hoped that not hearing
any agonized screaming was a good sign.
      Five doorways down was further than it sounded. There was a lot of
space between the doors; the rooms had to be enormous. They followed the
blood trail, all of them tense, alert, ready for action.
      Suddenly, the blood trail veered to the left, and through the fifth
doorway. Heartbeats sped up as they cautiously approached the open door. It
was from here that the pulsating light and humming sound originated; both got
stronger as they neared the doorway.
      Angel felt like he was walking in slow motion. Every footstep seemed to
take a year. Finally, they were there, at the entrance. Riley, Xander and
Willow darted across the doorway, while Angel, Buffy and Giles stayed on the
near side. They all got into position so that they could see into the room
and know what they were dealing with. They all froze in horror and awe at the
scene before them . . .
      The room was massive, like a small cathedral in size, with a high
ceiling and thick stone walls. The pulsating, yellow light was stronger here,
seeming to ooze in the cracks and crevices of the walls, ceiling and floor.
The humming sound was stronger up near the ceiling, up where the new and
improved Beacon hung suspended from the ceiling. It was seven to eight times
the size of the original Beacon, and the lines that held it also oozed and
pulsated with the yellow light. Its glasslike cylinder was dark and silent
for the moment; it was not activated . . . yet. All around it, from ceiling
to floor, was an obvious force field protecting it. Maybe this was the reason
there were only six guards in the room. Four of them were working on control
panels mounted on the wall, near where the force field ended.
      The other two demons stood on a concrete platform that had been poured
in the middle of the otherwise empty room. It stood several feet away from
the force field, directly in front of, and down from, the Beacon. Two heavy
wooden beams, each seven feet in height and standing about six feet away from
each other, had been erected and were fully embedded in the hard, dry cement.
Across the tops of them, lay another heavy beam, securely anchored to the
other two so that they formed a rectangular, wooden archway. Attached to the
bottom of the crossbeam were two heavy lengths of chain. These two lengths of
chain ended in heavy iron manacles, both of which encircled the wrists of
Alan Francis Doyle.
      The chains were too short to allow his feet to touch the platform; he
dangled from the crossbeam, arms pulled from their sockets, blood running
down his arms from the painful pressure of the heavy manacles around his
tortured wrists.
He was barely conscious, his chest rising and falling with terrified and
labored respirations. His slit-opened eyes stared out from a face that was
bruised, bloody and battered. What clothes did hang on his thin, frail, weak,
beaten, battered frame, were dirty, torn and bloodstained. His back, chest
and legs bore cuts, bruises, whip marks and other injuries too numerous tocount.
      The two Scourge demons on the platform were taunting him.
      "So, what do you think, half-breed?" asked one, putting his hand
underneath Doyle's chin and wrenching his head up, forcing him to look into
his demon face, "Isn't it a thing of beauty?"
      Weak, exhausted, in agony, and struggling to breathe, it would be an
understatement to say that it was difficult for Doyle to talk, but he managed
to do it anyway, his voice weak, barely audible, "I'm . . . sure . . . you .
. . think . . . so . . ."
      A low moan escaped him. He was terrified, and despite everything he'd
been through, he still did not want to die, but he knew, had known from the
moment he'd found himself here almost a year ago, that death was his only way
out of this hell. Angel and Cordelia either thought him dead or were dead
themselves. There had never been any hope. There was only death, real death
this time, if they would just let him die. "Why . . . don't . . . you . . .
just . . . get . . . this . . . over . . . with?"
      "All in good time, half-breed. All in good time." The Scourge demon
laughed in his face. "Don't rush it. It's not going to be fun. For you
anyway." He laughed again.
      "You . . . mean . . . compared . . . to all . . . the . . . fun . . .
I've . . . been . . . having?" Doyle gasped out.
      "Not even close." The demon grinned at him. "And after we're through
with you, well, then the fun really begins."
      Doyle felt a stab of anger go through him, momentarily suppressing his
terror and panic, and his concern for himself. All of humanity was to receive
the same fate as he was, and this time there was nothing he could do about
it. He looked directly into his tormentor's face, and with all the strength
he could muster, spit at him, hitting the demon directly in the eyes.  This
earned him an angry roar from his captor, along with a viscous slap across
the face that sent him into oblivion. Fresh blood seeped from the new wound
the demon had created.
      "You knocked him out," the second demon said angrily. He hadn't gotten
his chance to abuse the half-breed today, and now they were getting ready to
kill him.
      "That's okay," demon number one growled, wiping Doyle's saliva from his
face. "He had that coming. We'll wake him up. There'll be plenty of time for
you to play before his execution. We certainly wouldn't want him to miss
that."  He smirked, cuffed the unconscious Doyle across the face again. "I'll
enjoy watching him die. He's been nothing but trouble. I'll bet . . ."
      He never got to finish the thought. Angel, who with the others had
watched this exchange between Doyle and the Scourge in horror and fury, lost
control. With a cry of rage and anguish that came from deep within his
tormented soul, Angel, in full vamp mode, charged the two demons, leapt up
onto the platform and grabbed them both around their necks. He then slammed
their heads together, crushing their skulls. They never knew what hit them;
they fell dead at his feet.
      Buffy, Riley and Xander were dealing with the other four demons, as
Angel turned to Doyle. With pain and rage and grief sustaining him, Angel
went to his friend and, with his bare hands, tore the manacles from Doyle's
bleeding wrists. The iron broke into pieces; Doyle collapsed into Angel'sarms.
      Having dealt successfully with the other four demons, Buffy and crew
turned and watched, silently, respectfully, as Angel gently lifted Doyle, his
battered, frail body weighed next to nothing, one arm behind his back, the
other under his knees, and gently, almost reverently, cradled him up against
his chest. Doyle's head fell onto Angel's shoulder.
      Angel no longer made any attempt to conceal or control his raw
emotions. Openly weeping now, his vampire face having receded, Angel closed
his eyes, and gently rested his head on top of Doyle's. He could hear Doyle's
breathing and feel his rapid heartbeat through his own silent chest. The
others, now either with tears in their eyes or openly weeping themselves,
continued to watch silently, knowing that although there were other crisis
requiring his attention, Angel needed this moment with his long lost friend.
      The tears continued to slide from under Angel's eyelids, running down
and off his face, directly onto Doyle's. Their sheer volume washed some of
the blood from Doyle's face, and also partially revived him. His eyelids
flickered, opened slightly to see Angel's face right above his.
      "Angel?" Doyle's voice was full of wonder and disbelief, and so soft,
so weak, no one but Angel, with his vampire senses, could have heard it.
      Angel opened his eyes to look into Doyle's cloudy, pain-filled blue
ones. "Doyle!" He lifted his head, could focus better then. "Yeah, Doyle,
it's me. We're going to get you out of here, just hang on."
      "Angel, I . . . don't . . . believe . . . it. Angel . . . oh God, man.
Angel . . . I . . ." As much as he wanted to, Doyle was unable to stay with
him. He closed his eyes, slid back into unconsciousness.
      "Doyle!"  Angel cried.
      "It's all right, Angel," Giles said from behind him, making him jump.
"He's passed out, and that's probably best." And looking into Doyle's
battered face, Giles knew it was best, and he prayed that he stayed that way.
      Buffy had to tear her eyes away from Doyle; she was sickened by what
had been done to him. They needed to get him out of here, but first, "Angel,
the Beacon." No response. "Angel."
      "Yeah." Angel was still looking into Doyle's face in wonder. He was
really alive. Reluctant to look away from the half-demon, Angel turned and
stepped off the platform, forced his attention to the Beacon. It hung there,
dark and silent, yet threatening, force field still intact.
      The six of them, plus Doyle, still in Angel's arms, stood looking at
the Scourge's weapon of death. Silence for a few seconds, then Xander said,
"So, how do we reach it?"
      "We need to figure this out soon," Riley said, as Giles walked over to
the control panels on the wall, starting looking at them. "This room won't
stay empty long."
      "And we need to get him out of here!" The still tearful Willow said. "I
can't bear it if they hurt him anymore."
      "We'll get him out, Will," Buffy said. "But first we've got to . . ."
she broke off as Giles returned to them.
      He shook his head. "I see nothing on the panels that has anything to do
with the force field. It's being generated somewhere else, but where?"
      Silence again for a minute, then, "All right," said Angel, as he came
to a decision. "Willow's right, we need to get Doyle out of here." If nothing
else, Doyle had to survive. "And this," he nodded up at the Beacon, "may take
awhile. I'll stay . . ."      "We'll stay," Buffy interjected.
      "And figure out the Beacon," Angel finished.
      He turned to Riley. The two stood silently for a moment, looking into
the other's eyes. In Angel's, Riley saw fear, desperation and pleading. In
Riley's, Angel saw his honesty, his integrity, his compassion, and what he
hadn't been able to put into words back in Sunnydale--his total reliability,
his trustworthiness. In that moment, Angel knew that he could trust Riley
Finn completely.
      "Take him," he said, gently placing his friend--his best friend, maybe
his salvation--into Riley's arms. Riley received him just as gently. Angel
stepped away reluctantly, his shirt stained with Doyle's blood. "Protect him
for me."
      "I will," Riley promised, his eyes solemn. "With my life, if necessary."
      Angel believed him, nodded. "Now go, all of you."
      "I don't think . . ." Giles began.
      "Go on, Giles, Willow, Xander. Help Riley get Doyle out of here. He's
been through enough." Buffy turned to Riley, smiled. "We'll be there as soon
as we can."Riley hesitated, then nodded. Buffy and Angel had fought many battles
together; he had to trust that they would win this one. And Doyle needed out.
With the half-demon in his arms, he turned and ran out of the room, Xander,
Giles and Willow following.      "Okay." Buffy turned to Angel. "Now what?"
      Angel was studying the Beacon and its force field. "I don't . . ."
      "Well, Angelus," an all too familiar voice boomed from across the room,
and Angel suddenly knew why there had been so few Scourge around, why their
entry into the building had been so unopposed. He and Buffy turned to face .
. . the demon guide.
      Angel watched apprehensively as the yellow eyes faded, and the
gray/black cloak shimmered, then dissolved to reveal . . . a demon of the
Scourge.      The demon of the Scourge, as it turned out. "Or should I say . . .
Angel. I've been expecting you. I am Kana, leader of the Scourge."


Chapter Thirteen


      Kana, leader of the Scourge, and two dozen of his cohorts had emerged
from a hidden entrance at the far side of the room. They advanced on the
vampire and the slayer, weapons drawn and pointed at them. They'd obviously
been waiting for them, expecting them, as Kana had said. Buffy and Angel
remained still and silent as the demon group surrounded them. Angel's eyes
darted toward the door Riley and the others had just passed through. How long
would it be before they were all dragged back into this room?  And Doyle . .
. He felt sick as he thought of Doyle back in Scourge hands.
      The Scourge leader interrupted his thoughts. "Did you really think you
could fool me, vampire?" he taunted. "Did you really think I wouldn't
recognize you from before?"
      "If I'd known it was you, I might have stayed at home," Angel quipped,
with more bravado than he felt. There had been no choice but to come here,
whether they had been expected or not, but Angel knew now that he'd been used
to lure the others here, and felt responsible for whatever now befell them.
"Since when does the 'Leader of the Scourge' moonlight as a demon guide?"
      Kana chuckled softly. "Just a hobby of mine. A pastime that keeps me
from getting bored. You never know when some stupid half-breed will decide to
open the doorway, and blunder neatly into our web. It's good sport. You were
a far greater prize, however." He paused, stopped right in front of Angel,
studied him a minute. "I have to admit though, you almost had me fooled.  At
first, you did fool me. Oh, I recognized you," he rolled his eyes, "from the
Quintessa fiasco. But, you were convincing, with your two friends appearing
to be dead on the floor, all that talk about having your soul removed, of
wanting to help the Scourge. And I could not sense a soul. I still don't know
how you accomplished that.  And then it occurred to me, that if you were
genuinely Angelus again, you could be useful to us." He grinned, an ugly,
leering grin. "I thought of how amusing it would be, how ironic it would be,
how painful it would be, for Angel to be present at the half-breed's
execution." He laughed. "Imagine Doyle's agony to have Angel watch him die .
. . and enjoy it."
      Angel stared at him in revulsion, but it was Buffy who spoke, "Oh, Mr.
Scourge leader, you are sick."
      "Ah, the Slayer speaks," Kana drawled, looking at her. "It's a pleasure
to make your acquaintance. It will be an even greater pleasure to kill you."
Buffy said nothing, but the daggers in her eyes spoke volumes. Try it, you
scum, they said. Kana laughed, turned back to Angel. "It wasn't until I
opened the doorway to our compound that I knew you weren't genuine. I could
sense your dismay, your hesitation, your humanity, if not your soul. I almost
killed you then and there, but then I realized that you would be back for the
half-breed Doyle; saving him would override any common sense you might have.
And," he grinned malignantly at Buffy, "you just might bring some help. And,
so, now with you, the slayer, and the half-breed dead, there will be no one
to oppose us."
      "You sure are one to count your chickens, aren't you?" Buffy asked. "I
mean, do we look dead to you?"
      "And you doubt you will be?" Kana rounded on her. "Well, doubt no more,
Slayer." He stretched out his right arm, and, with his left hand, pushed a
button on a small metal box attached to his right wrist. Immediately, a beam
of yellow light burst forth from the box, catching both Angel and Buffy up in
it, slamming them into the wall behind them and pinning them there. Kana then
turned to his minions. "Half of you go and help the others find the
half-breed. Bring him and his friends back here to me. They couldn't have
gotten far."
      "NO!" Angel screamed it from his position against the wall, watching
helplessly as the troops departed. He struggled in vain against the light
holding him. "Let him go! Let them go! You have me now! Let them go. Let
Doyle go."
      Kana looked at Angel, obviously puzzled. "You really do care about him,
don't you?" He shook his head, laughed. "Let him go? And deprive myself of
the pleasure of letting him watch all of you die? And then, of course, the
greatest pleasure of all . . . killing that half-breed scum himself."
      Angel felt a sick, helpless rage build up inside him. He could feel
that Buffy felt the same way. They both tried again to free themselves from
the light pinning them to the wall, to no avail. Angel choked down a
frustrated sob. He'd done this. He'd led them all here. And Doyle . . .
      'Please,' he silently begged all the Powers out there. 'Please let him
get out of here.'
Kana almost seemed to hear his thoughts. He gave Angel an ugly, knowing grin.
"They'll be bringing him soon, and, when they do, we'll be ready for him."
Then he turned, looked toward the Beacon, and, with a slight nod of his head,
the light inside the cylinder began to glow.

******************************************************************************

      Angel's plea had not been answered. It was as Kana had said; they had
not gotten far. They had barely reached the first door down, when they
suddenly heard the sounds of boots running and loud voices shouting, coming
their way from both directions.
      Riley, Doyle still cradled in his arms, prayed that the room was empty
as he ducked into the doorway they'd been about to pass. Giles, Xander and
Willow quickly followed, and they all lined up, kneeling, against the wall
next to the open door, all breathing heavily.
      "They've . . . mobilized!" Xander said, between breaths.
      "Yeah, and they knew we were here," Riley said, voicing what he'd
suspected all along. "From the beginning, somehow they knew. They were
expecting us, and we walked right into their trap."
      "So, they're everywhere," Giles said softly. "Buffy and Angel, do you
think it's even possible that they evaded capture?"
      "Not likely," Xander was the one to answer him, "And it looks like were
next." He gestured toward the door, and raised his weapon. They could hear
loud footsteps approaching the room they were hiding in.
      "You look over there in that room," they heard a Scourge demon say
right outside the door. "We'll check over here."
      Everyone held his or her breath. Riley pulled out his stun gun, looked
down at the unconscious half-demon he held in his arms. His heart actually
hurt as he looked into Doyle's battered, blood-streaked face. Everything he'd
been through was clearly etched there; he didn't need or deserve to be put
through anymore. Riley had promised to protect him, but he wasn't sure how he
was going to do that now. The weapons they had would not be enough to fight
off the whole Scourge army. Riley braced himself as he heard the soldiers
approaching, aimed the gun at the doorway, and waited for the Scourge to
enter. The vast room was empty; there was no place to hide, and no way the
Scourge could miss them. Yet, incredibly, he watched as they entered, looked
around the room, looked directly at Riley and his group, but somehow didn't
see them. The lead soldier shook his head, turned to his troops and said,
"There's nobody here. Where could they be? Kana will have our heads if we
don't find them. Come on, let's go. Next room." They then walked out of theroom.
      Riley and Xander simultaneously dropped their weapons, let out their
pent up breaths. Giles leaned up against the wall. His hand shook as he wiped
the sweat from his forehead. There was silence for a minute. Then Riley
asked, in a hoarse voice, "How was that possible?"
      "Willow," Giles and Xander said together. All three men looked at her.
She sat with her eyes closed. At the mention of her name, she opened her
eyes, smiled gently at them, and then slowly opened her hand to show them the
fine, white powder she'd scattered around them, just before the Scourge had
entered the room. A few murmured words and they had all been renderedinvisible.
      "It won't last long, though," she told them. "None of the spells will."
      "What?", "Why not?" and "How do you know?" Giles, Riley and Xander
asked at the same time.
      "I don't know, it's this place," Willow said, looking up at the yellow
ceiling. "The yellow light, it's like it drains the energy right out of the
spells. I can feel it happening . . . it just sucks it up like a sponge. And
without energy to sustain them, they can't last. They won't last."
      "Great. Just great," Xander whined. "Does nothing want to go right?"
      "Apparently not," Giles interjected, "And we now have a decision to
make. And that is, what do we do now? We can be almost certain that Buffy and
Angel are in danger."      "And we aren't?" Xander wanted to know.
      "I didn't say that, Xander," Giles returned. "I'm merely pointing out .
. ."      "Okay. Okay," Xander interrupted. He turned to Riley. They all turned
to Riley."All right Mr. Initiative Guy. What do we do now?"
      Riley was used to making command decisions, used to people looking to
him for the answers. But this wasn't an Initiative mission. In many ways, for
several people, this was personal as well as tactical and Riley found himself
in a dilemma. Part of him could only think of Buffy, and Angel too, back in
the Beacon room, trapped with the Scourge, perhaps fighting for their lives,
needing his help.  Then there was Doyle. Riley looked again at the young
half-demon who lay so still in his arms. He had given his word to protect
Doyle, to take him out of harms way, and Riley Finn was not a man to give his
word lightly.  Thus, for him, the decision was made. He opened his mouth to
speak, but before he could utter a word, Doyle suddenly gave a low moan, and
stirred in Riley's arms, murmuring something none of them could hear. Four
pairs of eyes looked at the half-demon as Riley whispered, trying to calm his
increasing agitation, "It's okay. Doyle, it's okay."
      "No . . . no . . ." Doyle moaned, audibly this time. "No...Angel..." 
His eyes suddenly snapped open, looked directly at Riley. "Angel?"
      "Doyle . . ." Riley began, amazed that he was even conscious at this
point. "Doyle, we're going to get you out of here."
      "No!" Doyle tried to sit up, fell back with a moan of agony. "No!
Where's Angel?"      
      "He's..." Riley looked helplessly at Giles.
      "Doyle," Giles began gently, suddenly realizing that Doyle knew none of
them. "You don't understand. We're friends of Buffy's, and we've got to..."
      "No. No, man, you don't understand," Doyle cried in his weak voice.
"He's activated it. It's arming itself. I...need...Angel." His voice lost 
strength on the last three words; he had to struggle to stay conscious.
      Riley and Giles looked at each other in horrified understanding.
      "Activated it," Riley repeated.      
      "The Beacon," Giles said softly.
      "Great. And again, just great," Xander said. "This just keeps getting
better and better."
      "Buffy and Angel," Willow whispered, her eyes suddenly huge in her
peaked face.
      At the mention of Angel's name, Doyle roused again. "Angel," he cried,
suddenly breaking free of Riley's gentle grip. He rolled off Riley's knees,
fell to the floor with a moan, and began painfully dragging his beaten,
battered body toward the door.
      "Doyle, don't!" Riley scrambled after him, caught him easily, held him
gently. He did not want to hurt him, was amazed at Doyle's resistance, at his
ability to fight Riley's grip with a strength Riley never would have thought
he had. "Doyle..."
      "No, let me go," Doyle begged, almost sobbed. "He's activated it!
Please help me. Angel!"  He continued to struggle against Riley's grip,
trying to get to the door, to the hallway, to the Beacon room...to Angel.
      "Doyle . . ." Riley broke off helplessly, looked to Giles. "How is he
doing this?"
      "I don't know. Sheer force of will, I should think." Giles, too,
watched Doyle in amazement, as he did some quick thinking.
      "Please, help me!" Doyle begged again, again trying to break free of
Riley's grip.      
      "Doyle..." Riley held on.
      "Riley!" Giles' voice was sharp, and Riley looked up. "Riley, I don't
think we should fight him on this."
      "But, Giles," Xander cried. "He's trying to get back to...He can't..."
      "I'm fully aware of where he is trying to go, Xander," Giles said, and
then addressed Riley again, "Listen to me Riley. I know you feel you need to
get him out, but look at him. Do you really think we're going to get him to
go, willingly, anywhere else but back to that Beacon room? And under the
circumstances, with everything considered, do you really think we should do
anything but help him?"
      Riley looked back down at Doyle; their eyes met. Doyle's blue ones were
filled with tears, with pain, with pleading. Riley understood, for he too had
someone he cared about possibly trapped in that room with the Scourge, with
the Beacon that was even now arming itself. He understood something else, as
well. He knew it wasn't just about Buffy and Angel, it was also about the
whole human world. Thus, Giles was right, they had no choice but to go back.
      "You're right," Riley said, and Doyle let out a sob of relief.
      "All right. Let's go then," Giles said, standing. "Riley, Xander, help
him."     
      Riley stood, then gently pulled the weak, battered Doyle to his feet,
caught him when he would have fallen. Xander walked around him and supported
him on his other side. Staying conscious with effort, Doyle looked from
Xander to Riley. "Thank-you," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
      Riley nodded. "Let's go."
      The five of them moved to the doorway, and checked the hallway. Two
Scourge demons were standing about five feet away, not looking in their
direction. Two quick blasts from Riley's silent stun gun and they were taken
care of. The rest of the hall appeared clear for the moment. They walked out
into the hallway and began making their way back to the Beacon.

******************************************************************************

      Angel and Buffy, still pinned to the wall by Kana's yellow beam,
watched in horror, as the Beacons clear cylinder began to glow. Both had
tried to free themselves repeatedly, without success.
      "It's armed, isn't it?" Buffy asked.
      "It's arming itself, yes," Angel replied. "Buffy, I'm sorry about
getting you into all this."
      "Don't be sorry, Angel," Buffy told him, her eyes on the Beacon. "You
didn't get me into anything, either. I do what I want to do, and what I have
to do. You know that. And this was necessary. Besides, we're not done yet,
we've got . . ." she broke off as Kana approached them. He and the guards
that remained with him had been watching the door for Doyle. He was obviously
not happy about the fact that he didn't have the half-demon in his hands yet,
and decided to distract himself with Angel and Buffy.
      He now stood before them, smiling his ugly smile. "So, Angel, what do
you think of our new Beacon?  Quite an improvement, eh?"
      "I'm sure you think so," Angel said, echoing Doyle's earlier words.
      "Did you know," Kana went on, "that it can be altered in both strength
and scope? For instance, it could kill hundreds of people at once, quickly
and," he smirked, "almost painlessly, or it can be narrowed down to just one
person, killing them as slowly and as painfully as we . . . as I desire." He
stopped, turned to look Angel right in the eyes, and Angel could then see his
pure evil. "That's what I intend for your Doyle. After I force him to watch
it kill all of you."
      Despite their own immediate danger, all Buffy could think about at that
moment was Doyle, trapped here for a year, being tortured and tormented by
this...thing. "You know, Mr. Scourge leader, you really stink."
      "And I now know that I really will enjoy watching you die, Slayer."
Unfazed, Kana turned back to look at his Beacon. "You know though, Angel, as
angry as I've been with your half-breed friend, and, believe me, I've been
angry with him..."      
      "Yeah," Angel said in a dangerous voice. "It shows."
      "Does it? Good." Kana grinned. "Anyway, as angry as I've been with him
for destroying that first Beacon and," he rolled his eyes, "helping that
half-Lister scum escape, I have to say that his efforts did allow us to
achieve...this. Set us back a year, of course, but..."
      "Well, if he's helped you so much, then let him go."
      Kana whirled on him. "Why do you keep saying that? As if I ever would.
Let him go? My dear Angel, even if he hadn't caused us problems, which he
really has, he's half-human. That alone makes his death...inevitable." He
turned away then, "And speaking of the half-breed, where is he?"

******************************************************************************

      The answer to his question was approaching the doorway as he spoke. He
was still being supported by Xander and Riley, was holding onto consciousness
through sheer force of will, and the terrifying knowledge that the Beacon was
activated.
       They had dealt with the Scourge as they had come across them, and now
their way was clear as they approached the door to the Beacon room. They
crept up to the door, looked in, and took in the scene: the Scourge army, the
glowing Beacon, Buffy and Angel pinned to the wall, with Kana standing in
front of them . . .
      A rush of nightmarish memories and images exploded through Doyle's
mind. Hours upon hours of being tortured by Kana, relentless, without mercy,
until he'd been certain he would lose his mind, if not yet his life. He, too,
had spent time pinned to the wall by Kana's tormenting light, while Kana . .
. He could think no further, could only see Kana laughing his evil,
self-satisfied laugh, laughing at his pain, at his terror, at hishelplessness.
      "No!" Doyle cried, his voice broken and rough. "No more, damn you!"  He
then broke free from Xander and Riley's grip.
      Five human and one vampire's voice screamed, "Doyle!" as he, with
absolutely the last ounce of strength he had left, hurled himself into the
unprepared Scourge leader. Kana, who would never have expected anything like
this from the weak, battered, half-dead Doyle, was knocked off balance,
almost fell. As Kana tried to regain his footing, Doyle grabbed the hateful
box on Kana's wrist, ripped it off, and smashed it to the floor; it shattered
into hundreds of pieces. The beam of light holding Buffy and Angel against
the wall disappeared. They fell to the floor, then scrambled to their feet as
Kana, enraged, whirled on Doyle, rewarding his efforts with a viscous
backhand that sent him hurtling toward the wall...
      "NO!" Angel screamed desperately, starting to run in Doyle's direction,
knowing he could never reach him in time.
      Had Doyle hit the wall, the impact would have been fatal. However, fate
intervened in the person of Riley Finn. Awed by Doyle's continued courage and
strength, he drew on his own supply of those two qualities, and, with
superhuman effort, threw himself into Doyle's path. He caught the half-demon
in his arms, slowing down his momentum, which nevertheless, slammed them both
painfully, but not mortally, into the wall. Riley gasped as he took the
hardest impact, shielding Doyle's body with his own. They slid down the wall
together, and, again, Riley protected Doyle from any contact with the hard,
concrete floor. He looked down at Doyle, was relieved to find him still
breathing, but not really surprised to find him still conscious.
      With the wind knocked out of him, it was hard to force words out, but
Riley did it.  "You're...something else, Mr. Doyle."
      "And you just saved my life," Doyle replied, fresh blood dripping from
Kana's newest abuse. "Thank-you..?"
      "Riley.  Don't mention it."  Riley looked up as Angel landed on his
knees beside them, Buffy and the others behind him.
      "Doyle..." Angel began.
      "He's all right," Riley told him, wincing slightly. He looked at Buffy.
"We both are, I guess." Buffy's look of concern changed to a smile.
      "Angel..." Doyle began breathlessly, was interrupted by reality.
They'd all forgotten for a moment, where they were, what was happening. Then
Kana laughed, an utterly evil laugh, completely devoid of any humanity.
      Angel stood then, and turned with the others to see the Scourge slowly
approaching them, from all sides. Buffy, Angel, Giles and Xander quickly drew
weapons, and formed a half-circle in front of Riley and Doyle. Willow backed
up to stand against the wall, one hand slowly reaching into her pocket. Riley
gently shifted Doyle off of his knees, and then eased his own sore body in
front of Doyle, once again shielding the half-demon's body with his own. As
he watched the Scourge close in, he pulled his stun gun from his jacket,
silently wondering if Doyle's thanks had been premature. Behind him, he could
feel Doyle tremble, could not imagine what he was going through right now,
faced with, once again, being a captive of the Scourge.
      Not if they could help it, however. Out numbered though they were, they
were all determined not to go down without a fight.
      "Get them," Kana ordered in a voice as cold as ice.
      With cries of triumph, the Scourge troops rushed the small group facing
them. Weapons were fired. A few of the Scourge fell, but they kept coming... 
closer...closer...
      "NO!" The scream came from Willow, her eyes closed tightly. With all
her strength, she hurled a red powder into the air, chanting in a loud voice,
"Obla con. Demon! Obla con!"
      The red powder swirled around the room, making it appear orange rather
than yellow for several seconds. Then it floated down like a light snowfall
onto the Scourge demons, who were immediately immobilized, frozen where they
stood, their leader included.
      Silence reigned for an instant, as the group, save Willow, whose eyes
remained closed, stared at their momentarily foiled foes.
      Buffy was the first to move. Walking to Willow, she put a hand on her
shoulder. "Will, you did it."
      Willow opened her eyes, took in her handiwork, nodded slightly, and
then shook her head, looked first at Buffy, then at Angel. "Yes, but it won't
last long."
      She could already feel the spell losing its energy to the yellow,
pulsating light, slowly, but surely.
      "All right," Angel said, not questioning her. He turned to Riley. "But,
while it does last, get him out of here."
      Riley nodded, struggled to his knees, gathered Doyle into his arms,
and, with Angel's help, got painfully to his feet. He stood still a second or
two, getting his balance...
      Before anyone could say or do anything else, Doyle reached up, and with
both hands, clutched at both Angel's and Riley's bloodstained shirts.
      My blood, he thought dizzyingly. My blood on both of them. He closed
his eyes, knew he couldn't stay conscious much longer. He was physically and
emotionally drained. He had nothing left.
      "Go on, Riley," Angel said, watching Doyle with concern. "Get him out
of here. Doyle..."
      "Wait!" With effort, Doyle opened his eyes, looked first at Riley, then
directly into Angel's eyes; the others moved to stand around the three of
them as he said, "Angel, listen to me, please."
      Angel's breath caught in his throat as he nodded. Doyle's effort to
stay with them was almost too painful to watch, and Angel knew that what he
had to say was important, or he would give in. "Go on, Doyle. Tell me."
      It was taxing to breath, let alone talk, but Doyle knew he had to tell
them this, so he held on. "Kana...alone...protects...the...
Beacon." He stopped to catch his breath, then continued, his voice broken,
and every word so soft they all had to strain to hear them, "Kill him...
and...the force field...will drop..." He moaned as sudden pain stabbed 
through him, gripped Angel's shirt tighter. Angel covered Doyle's hand with
his own, wishing with all his nonbeating heart that he could take Doyle's 
pain onto himself. It took everything Doyle had to continue, "Destroy
...the...Beacon...and you'll...destroy...them all, the entire Scourge army.
They're all...linked...to it. They...give...it...its power." He stopped 
again, exhausted, closed his eyes, breathed for a couple of seconds, then
opened his eyes and looked straight into Angel's. "Put...out...his...light...
Angel." His voice faded with every word. Then his eyes closed again as he, 
finally, succumbed to his body's weakness and pain, and slid into blessed 
unconsciousness.
      Angel and Riley placed his hands gently on his chest. Angel reached out
and gently touched Doyle's battered, bloody face. He stood there for a moment,
looking down at his connection, his friend, and, once again, as on the
Quintessa, his hero.
      He looked up at Riley, who was watching him with clear understanding in
his eyes. "I believe that he's about the bravest person I've ever met."
      With too much emotion trying to rise within him, Angel could only nod
in agreement at that. "Now, please, get him out of here." He looked at
Willow. "Willow, go with them. Help Riley."
      Willow nodded reluctantly. "All right, but remember, it won't last much
longer."
      "Let's go Willow," Riley said, and, once again, carrying Doyle in his
arms, Riley ran from the room, Willow following close behind him.

******************************************************************************

      They were no sooner out the door when Willow's prediction came true.
Kana, but only Kana, suddenly began to move. Seeing that his minions were
still motionless, he nevertheless turned and advanced toward the group, who
still stood near the wall.   Xander drew his weapon, but Angel pushed his arm
down. "Oh no, he's mine."
      "You mean ours," Buffy supplied, then looked over at the glowing
Beacon. "How much time, Angel?"
      "I don't know. It should be fully armed by now. He's controlling it
somehow."      
      "Along with that force field."
      "Right. Now, let's get him," Angel growled, his vampire face comingforth.
      Together, they rushed the Scourge leader, but he was quick and strong,
and evaded them both. So Buffy went one way and Angel the other, and they
continued the attack. They landed blows; Kana landed blows. They were thrown
into walls; Kana was thrown into walls. It was pretty much one of those
slayer, Angel, Demon force battles. At one point, Kana, his eyes starting to
glow, got away from the vampire and the slayer, ran to the platform, and
wrenched a sharp piece of wood from one of the beams. He then went after
Angel. It was this cursed with a soul vampire, after all, who he should have
killed when he had the chance back in the Demon Doorway, who had ruined
everything. With a roar, he charged the vampire, ramming him into the wall,
the piece of wood raised to stake him. His arm was blocked as Buffy kicked
it, and the piece of wood clattered to the floor.
      "Thanks," Angel said gratefully.
      "Think nothing of it," Buffy replied, as she and Angel grabbed the
demon and threw him to the floor. They then stood over him.
      "Shut it down, Kana," Angel told him, nodding at the Beacon.
      Kana laughed. "You shut it down, vampire, if you can, which I doubt.
You'll never get out alive, and even if Doyle does get out, he'll never
survive what I did to him. Know that. Oh yes, you shut it down."
      Angel's eyes were on fire. Buffy just shook her head, made a noise like
a game show buzzer. "Ehhhhhh! Wrong answer, demon."  She brought her foot
down to kick him, but missed as he rolled away, then got to his feet, his
face away from them for a moment, as his eyes fully charged themselves. Then
he turned toward the pair, his eyes brightly glowing that orange-yellow glow
of the demon guide.
      "Put out his light," Angel echoed Doyle as he looked at Buffy. "Hislight!"
      "His light," Buffy repeated. They both then dove out of the way, as a
hot beam of light suddenly shot out of Kana's eyes, and hit the wall like an
explosive.
      "Whoa," Buffy said to Angel, as they both regained their footing. "Some
light he's got there."
      Angel silently agreed, glanced at the Beacon. Its glow continued to
grow. "We've got to do this now, or he's right, we won't get out of here
alive. What do we use to put out his light?"
      "What about 'Mr. Pointy'," Buffy asked, pulling the stake from her bag
of tricks. "He's always been good for a kill or two . . . or several hundred."
      "All right," Angel agreed. "I'll draw his fire. You . . . just do that
slayer thing you do."      
      "You got it. With pleasure." Buffy nodded.
      Kana had regrouped and recharged; he turned as Angel yelled, "Hey,
Kana! Is that the best you can do? I would have thought the big, bad Leader
of the Scourge could do way better than that!" His eyes turned bright yellow,
and he fired five successive shots at the vampire. Angel zigzagged, ducked,
rolled, and the shots missed him. Buffy, taking advantage of Kana's
distraction, ran, leapt at him, hit him with both feet; they both went down.
Buffy recovered first, straddled him, and looked down into those eyes as they
started to recharge themselves. She knew they didn't have much time. She
raised Mr. Pointy above Kana's head, directly above his eyes.
      "Shut the beacon down, Kana," Buffy said, as Angel came to kneel beside
them. "Shut it down or I'll kill you now.'
      Kana grinned what was to be the last ugly, leering grin of his evil
life. "Go ahead, slayer, kill me, and then die yourselves. You'll never
disarm it in time." He looked at Angel. "And remember, vampire, no matter
what else happens . . . Doyle will die. He'll never survive what I did tohim."
      Buffy looked at Angel and saw the stricken look in his eyes, even
through his vampire visage. She cursed Kana silently, turned on him, the
stake raised higher. "Kana . . ."


      "Kill me Slayer, for all the good it will do you." He turned his eyes
toward the Beacon, their glow turned white-hot for a minute, and the Beacons
glow brightened considerably. He then turned back to Angel and Buffy, eyes
yellow again. "Go ahead, kill me."
      "Is that your final answer?" Buffy asked the demon.      
      "Just do it."
      Buffy looked at Angel, reached over, and put his hand on top of hers,
the one that held the stake. "You heard the demon, that's his final answer,"
she said, as she and Angel raised the stake high into the air over Kana'shead.
      "This is for Doyle, and he will live. Know that, you son of a bitch!"
Angel spat at him, as he and Buffy together brought down the stake into that
yellow, glowing light . . .
      Angel grabbed Buffy, pulled her to the side, as a powerful bolt of
yellow light shot out of Kana's head, and slammed into the force field; the
result was a flash of light so bright none of them could look at it. As the
light faded, Giles and Xander ran to where Angel and Buffy lay on the floor,
near Kana's glowing body.
      Giles and Xander helped Buffy and Angel to their feet, and they all
looked toward the Beacon. It continued to glow, but the force field was gone.
      Another burst of light flashed beside them. They all turned to look at
Kana's body. As they watched, the yellow light consumed it; his entire body
glowed for a moment more, and then the light went out . . . and Kana
disappeared. Above and around them, the pulsating, yellow light suddenly
dimmed, then brightened again, but was not as bright as it had been before.
      "Did you see that?" Xander cried. "That's happened before, twice
before. The first time was when we killed those six demons that were in here
when we first got here. You probably didn't notice, Angel, you were otherwise
occupied. The light didn't dim as much as it did this time, but it did dim,
and then when Willow froze all these Scourge it dimmed again and now when
Kana . . . exploded or whatever he just did, it dimmed again. Even the
Beacon's glow has slowed down a little, although he did increase it right
before you staked him. It has slowed down since he disappeared though."
      "It's because its power had been cut down," Giles theorized. "Remember
what Doyle said. He said they're all linked to it, they give it its power. So
when they are killed, or immobilized, it decreases the amount of energy to
the Beacon."
      "That's great, but we can't kill all the Scourge," Xander said.
      "No, but we can destroy the Beacon, and that, in turn, will kill all
the Scourge."
      Angel's eyes went to the Beacon, whose glow was slowly but surely
increasing. God only knew what Kana had done to it right before he vanished.
"Okay, but how do we destroy it?"
      They all looked at the glowing cylinder, at the three pulsating yellow
lines that emanated from it. Two of the lines that obviously held the Beacon
aloft were diagonal, from the ceiling to the Beacon. The third 'line' was
more like a pipe, and it ran horizontally from the Beacon straight into the
wall; its pulsation was stronger than the other two and it was from this
connection that the hum originated.
      "That's it," Angel said softly. "That has to be it."
      "Yes," Giles said. "That pipeline, somehow it must be harnessing energy
from the Scourge, and is feeding it to the Beacon."
      "So if we break the pipeline, we'll destroy the Beacon?" Buffy asked.
      "We can't be certain, of course, but . . ." Giles began.
      "We're out of time," Angel interrupted. He'd been watching the Beacon's
glow, knew that soon he wouldn't be able to get near that pipeline without
being burned. He'd also spied a metal ladder mounted on the wall that led up
to the pipeline. "Now somebody give me something to cut that pipe with, and
then you three get the hell out of here."
      "No, Angel," Buffy said firmly. "I'm not leaving. We'll see this
through together."
      "Buffy . . ." He stopped at the look on her face. He knew that lookwell.
      "Here you go, Angel," Xander said, reaching into his pack and pulling
out an ax. "Go for it."
     Angel took the ax. "Thanks, Xander. Now you and Giles get out of here.
You've done all you can." He paused, looked toward Giles, but, as always, not
directly at him. "If I don't make it, Giles, help Wesley take care of
Cordelia and Doyle for me. Make sure he lives, Giles. He has to live."
      "I would do whatever I could, for both of them, but you'll make it,
Angel," Giles said quietly. "You'll make it because you know that Doyle needs
you." He turned to Xander. "Let's go Xander, before these Scourge start
moving again. Buffy . . ."
      "See you in a few," Buffy said, and Giles nodded.
      "Good luck," he said, and then he and Xander left the room.
      Angel looked after them a second or two, hearing Giles' parting words:
'You'll make it because you know that Doyle needs you.' He looked at Buffy,
who nodded at him, and then to his amazement, walked over to him, put a hand
on his shoulder, and, standing on tiptoe, leaned up and gently kissed him on
the lips. It was wonderful and painful at the same time. She pulled away
gently and said, "Do it."
      Angel turned toward the Beacon. Its ominous glow was slowly growing
brighter. The time had come. He thought about Doyle . . . running, jumping
onto that previous Beacon, hanging on until he'd disarmed it. Now, it was
Angel's turn. His face slid neatly into vampire form and he ran, ax in hand,
to the ladder, leapt up onto it, then began climbing . . . up . . . up to the
pulsating pipeline. As he climbed, he could feel the Beacon's heat, and when
he reached the pipeline, he could actually feel it burning him. Again, he
thought of Doyle, of what it must have felt like to have been right on top of
that weapon of death. He mentally pushed away the pain, raised the ax, and
brought it down on the pipeline. It barely made a dent; he did it again,
harder this time. Still nothing.
      "Angel?" Buffy yelled from below him as she, too, started to feel the
Beacon's heat.
      Angel was actually sweating under the Beacon's heat. "It won't even
crack! What is this made of?"
      Suddenly, the yellow light around him began to grow brighter, the
pipe's pulsations grew stronger and louder, and the Beacon's glow also began
to increase.
      "Angel!" Buffy screamed, watching in horror as the Scourge troops began
to move. "HURRY! The spell is wearing off! We're going to have company here!"
      Angel turned back to the pipe, suddenly aware of Kana's promises.
You'll never disarm it in time . . . You'll die yourselves. Were they about
to die? And Doyle? Giles words came into his mind, echoing there: Doyle needs
you . . . Doyle needs you . . .  Were they about to die?
      "NO!" Angel screamed it, and with all his strength, all his will,
brought the ax down onto the pipe for the last time. The pipe broke in two,
one end hanging from the wall, the other dangling from the Beacon. The yellow
light seemed to ooze and flow from the wall end of the pipe. Angel watched it
as it poured out onto the floor, as the wall and ceiling began to change from
yellow to the stone's original gray. The pipeline still attached to the
Beacon lost all color and began to turn black as its energy supply was cut.
The humming sound, however, began to grow louder . . .
      "You did it!" Buffy screamed, as around her, the Scourge, who had begun
to move, were now dropping like flies.
      The loud hum became a louder, noxious whine, and the Beacon sparked,
then burst into flame.
      "It's going to blow!" Angel yelled, leaping down from the ladder. The
flames missed him by inches. He grabbed Buffy's hand. "Let's go!" They ran as
fast as they could, out of the burning room.

******************************************************************************

      Riley, with Doyle, and Willow, had run down the hallway. They were
dodging frozen Scourge, Willow throwing her red powder and murmuring her
chant as they met mobile ones, and freezing them where they stood. They made
it down the hallway, back to the staircase, met a new troop of Scourge coming
up as they started down. Riley pulled his stun gun, blasted away, while
Willow threw more powder as they bolted down the stairs . . . down the stairs
and then out into the night air. No Scourge sentries were outside. They'd all
been deployed into the building, and so Riley and Willow ran without
opposition over the uneven ground, to the hole in the fence--through it--then
along the fence to the small alcove where Wesley and Cordelia waited.

******************************************************************************

      Wesley had heard footsteps approaching. Their wait had been tense, but
physically uneventful. However, Wesley had experienced what could only have
been major duress on Doyle's part, through the unconscious Cordelia, several
times. She was awake now, had awakened at the same time Doyle had last lost
consciousness, her eyes wide as the footsteps came nearer. Wesley had
actually drawn the gun Angel had given him, held his breath, and then let it
out as he saw whom the footsteps belonged to. "Riley! Willow!" He looked at
the still figure Riley held in his arms. "And is this . .?"
      "Doyle!" Cordelia cried from where she still sat on the ground. Riley
nodded at both of them, and then carried the unconscious half-demon over to
Cordelia.  He knelt, and gently laid Doyle on the ground, his head in
Cordelia's lap. Riley then got up, stepped back, and he, Willow and Wesley
watched as Cordelia, tears of joy and pain running down her cheeks, gently
touched Doyle's battered face, brushed the hair away from his hot forehead.
"Oh Doyle," she whispered, "Look at what they've done to you. Doyle..."
      Her voice must have reached him then, for his eyelids flickered, then
opened slightly to look into her face.
      Almost a year since she'd last looked into those beautiful, blue eyes.
They were now filled with pain, exhaustion, and a rising fever. "Doyle?"
      Doyle managed a smile, a pale shadow of his usual grin, but as with
Angel earlier, as much as he wanted to, he couldn't stay with her. He did
manage to get one word out as he slid back into oblivion.
      "Princess . . ." he whispered as he closed his eyes, again lost
consciousness.   Tears flowed down Cordelia's cheeks as she, too, closed her
eyes and held him.
      Wesley then turned to Riley. "What's going on? Where are the others?"
      "Still in there, trying to disarm that Beacon," Riley said, looking
worriedly at the huge building.      
      "It's armed?" Wesley asked, alarmed.
      "Yes." Riley took a step forward. "I've got to get back in there."
      "No, Riley." Wesley grabbed his arm. "What if they get out and you're
back in? Then someone will need to go get you, and then maybe someone will
get killed. We need to wait here. Angel and Buffy will do it."
      Reluctantly, Riley had to admit that Wesley was right, but as a man of
action, waiting was tough. But wait they did . . . and waited and waited and
waited, until Riley had had enough. "Wesley, I'm sorry, but I..."
      "Wait!" Wesley cut in. "Someone's coming."
      It was Giles and Xander, bursting into the alcove, out of breath. Riley
walked to them. "What happened? Where are Buffy and Angel?"
      "We figured out how to destroy the Beacon," Giles told him, and relief
spread through the group.
      "Yeah, they shouldn't be far behind us," Xander said.
      "Okay," Riley said, then walked a few feet away from the others,
anxiously watching the building.
      Giles walked over to where Cordelia still held the unconscious Doyle in
her arms. He knelt beside them. "How is he doing?"
      She lifted her tearstained face to look at him. "He's burning up,
Giles, and I can feel his fever inside too. It's growing."
      Giles reached out his hand, laid it on Doyle's forehead. It was hot.
"Yes, it is a high fever. We need to get him out of here to somewhere we can
care for him, soon."
      Cordelia didn't like the way he said soon. "He's not..." she
swallowed. "He's not going to die...is he, Giles?"
      Giles hesitated. He didn't know the full extent of Doyle's injuries,
but he did know that they were severe, and a raging infection with a high
fever was hardly a surprise. He didn't want to frighten her, but he didn't
want to make promises he couldn't keep either. "I don't know, Cordelia. I
hope to God he won't. And we'll do everything we can to help him."
      Cordelia nodded, looked back down at Doyle. 'Please don't die,' she
begged silently. 'Don't leave me again.'
      Then, suddenly, a loud shout broke through the air. It was Riley,
yelling, "It's on fire! The building's on fire!"
      Everyone, save Cordelia and Doyle, of course, ran out of the alcove,
and stopped dead in their tracks. The huge Scourge complex was on fire, with
a blaze that lit up the night sky.      
      "Oh my God," Giles breathed.
      "Angel . . ." This from Wesley.
      "Buffy," Riley said, softly, then screamed it, "Buffy!" He then began
running along the fence toward the hole they had made.
      "Riley! No!" Giles cried, but knew there was no way to stop him.
      Riley reached the hole in the fence, dove through, and ran . . . right
into Angel. Buffy, Riley heaved a sigh of relief, was right behind him.
      Angel grabbed him, pushed him back through the hole in the fence. "No,
Riley, we're all right, but we've got to get out of here! The whole thing's
gonna blow! We're not safe even out here! Now, let's move! RUN!"
      Riley obeyed; he turned and ran with Buffy and Angel back down along
the fence to the alcove, where the others waited. They were greeted with
cries of relief and delight.      
      "Angel . . ." Giles began.
      "The Scourge are dead, the Beacon's destroyed, or will be. We've got to
get out of here now. The whole building's about to go up." As he spoke, Angel
walked rapidly over to Cordelia and Doyle. He knelt down, and gently lifted
the unconscious Doyle from Cordelia's arms into his. He looked down into his
friend's face, could feel the heat radiating from his broken, frail body. '
You'll live, Doyle,' he promised silently. 'No matter what I have to do,
you'll live. You have to live, because I don't know what I'll do if you
don't.' He looked down at Cordelia then, met her eyes; he could see a
reflection of his own fears in them. He nodded at her, smiling slightly. She
smiled back, as Wesley helped her to her feet. She was still shaky, and was
really beginning to feel Doyle's illness now . . . the fever raging insidehim.
      Carrying Doyle, Angel walked to where the pile of rocks marked the
Demon Doorway, the others following him. Xander had already built a fire, and
together they did the demon chant, Willow throwing in the powder at the
appropriate times. Now it was time for the password. Angel stood still a
second, having absolutely no idea, if, with Kana gone, the password would
work or not. And if it didn't...
      Angel took a deep breath, and said, "Kana."
      Miraculously, the doorway opened as it had before. There was a
collective sigh of relief, and then, one after another, they all passed
safely through. The door closed behind them. Seconds later, the building blew
...obliterating everything for miles around it.


 Chapter Fourteen


      Exhausted, they all walked through the green-black darkness. They had 
all felt the ground tremor behind them through the closed Demon Doorway, and 
thus knew how close they'd come to the ultimate sleep.
      They walked mostly in silence. Angel was in front, carrying the 
feverish, increasingly restless and delirious Doyle. The half-demon kept 
murmuring things that Angel couldn't quite catch, but his agitation and fear 
were obvious, and it scared Angel to see him this ill, this vulnerable. He 
tried to quiet him with soothing words and a gentle voice, but soon realized 
that Doyle was, at this point, beyond his reach. Behind him, Cordelia, 
supported by Wesley, knew it too. She could feel Doyle's pain, anguish and 
terror, could see confusing and horrifyingly nightmarish images coming from 
his mind to hers, but she was having trouble sensing Doyle himself.
      "Oh God, Wesley," she whispered. "This is going to be bad, so bad. God, 
hasn't he been through enough?"
      "Yes, he has Cordelia, and I know it's going to be difficult, but we'll 
get him through it. Somehow, we'll get him through it." Wesley squeezed her 
arm. "And you too."
      Cordelia nodded, but it was an absent nod. She was too distracted and 
distressed by what she was receiving from Doyle.
      Buffy and Riley, Giles, Willow and Xander walked in a group behind the 
other four. They didn't speak, were all involved in their own thoughts, all 
of which, now that the Scourge was defeated, revolved around Doyle.
      Buffy was remembering the things Kana had said and what he had done to 
the half-demon, what he had planned to do to him, and she especially 
remembered his ugly, cruel words to Angel: Doyle will die . . . he'll never 
survive what I did to him.   
'Oh, yes he will,' she silently promised the dead Scourge leader. 'Oh, yes he 
will.'
      Riley was thinking about Doyle's bravery and unbelievable strength when 
he'd saved Buffy and Angel from Kana and his deadly yellow light. He'd risked 
his life to do that, had, in fact, almost died doing it, and Riley vowed to 
do whatever he could to help the half-demon survive.
      Giles, occupied with Doyle's physical injuries and high fever, was 
going over in his mind how best to treat him, Willow was thinking of healing 
spells she could use, and Xander, being Xander, just wanted to help however 
he could.
      It startled them all when the path abruptly ended, with solid blackness 
in front of them.
      "Kana," Angel said, and they all watched as the doorway slowly opened, 
to show them . . . Angel's living room.
      Angel was momentarily confused. He had been expecting Giles' apartment. 
"I don't understand. We're back in LA!"
      "It's all right, Angel, and it makes sense," Giles said. "The password 
was programmed to bring you back here. All that matters, though, is that 
we're someplace safe where we can take care of him."
      "Okay," Angel said, and led the way into his apartment. The others 
followed, and the Demon Doorway closed behind them for what they hoped would 
be the last time.
      Angel picked his way through the dried fake blood on the floor on his 
way to the bedroom.      "Love what you've done with the place," Xander quipped.
      "Yes, we really do need to clean up," Wesley agreed, walking Cordelia 
over to the couch, sitting her down.
      "Later," Angel said shortly, as he walked into his bedroom and gently 
laid the shivering, delirious Doyle down on the bed.
      Giles and Wesley followed him into the room. "Let us take a look at 
him, would you, Angel?" Giles asked, sitting a large bag down on the bed and 
opening it.
      "It's all right, Angel." Wesley put a hand on his shoulder. "You're too 
close to this. Let us see what we can do."
      Angel nodded, left reluctantly, after another look at his desperately 
ill and badly hurt friend. He went out into the living room, to sit by the 
shivering, teary-eyed Cordelia. He put an arm around her as she said, "Oh 
God, Angel, he's lost. He's so lost."
      "I know," Angel told her. "But we'll get him back."
      "Will we?" Cordelia asked, putting her head on his shoulder, closing 
her eyes.
      "Yes, we will." He wasn't going to let Kana win. Angel rested his head 
on top of hers, closed his eyes too.
      Silence, as they waited, with Angel and Cordelia on the couch, Buffy 
and Riley in chairs, Xander and Willow in the kitchen. They waited until . . . 
      Angel stood up as Wesley walked out of the bedroom, came to stand 
before him, his eyes full of worry and dismay. All eyes were on the 
Englishman, who looked at Angel, but spoke to them all, "Well, we cleaned him 
up, and cleansed and dressed his wounds as best we could, but . . ." Wesley 
hesitated, because in all truth, he'd never seen anyone as badly hurt as 
Doyle was, and still be alive. That, in itself, was a miracle . . . or 
Brachen demon biology.
      "What, Wesley?" Angel asked. Although he already knew the score, he 
needed to hear Wesley say it.
      "Well," Wesley hesitated, but went on, obviously understanding Angel's 
need to have the obvious stated for him, "It's bad, very bad. The severity of 
the wounds is . . . ugly, and we have no idea if any internal damage has been 
done." Wesley stopped, shook his head, "And the fever, it's running rampant, 
out of control. We've done what we can, but he needs more. He really needs to 
be in hospital, but, unfortunately, the high fever is now causing him to 
morph in and out of his Brachen form. Now, we're not sure how we'd explain 
that to a hospital staff, so, somehow, we're going to have to bring a doctor 
here to him."
      "Yeah, and I've got your bloody doctor right here," came a cocky, 
Cockney voice from the staircase.
      Everyone turned or looked up to see Spike, standing on the landing in 
the middle of the staircase, looking at them all with sardonic eyes.
      "How in God's name did you get in here?" Wesley asked heatedly, as he 
and Angel walked to the bottom of the stairs. Angel said nothing, but he 
looked at the blond vampire with dislike and distrust.
      Spike shook his head as he slowly walked down the stairs and stopped on 
the step directly above Wesley and Angel. He gave the ex-watcher a withering 
look. "He's already dead, you idiot," he said with a sideways glance at 
Angel. "I don't need an invitation from a dead man.  Speaking of which," he 
turned to Angel, "I've brought your demon friend a doctor. Do you want him or 
not?"
      "And what kind of doctor would that be, Spike?" Angel asked, as Buffy 
and Riley came up to stand behind them. "One who kills demons?"
      "Oh, bloody hell!" Spike exploded, exasperated. "Come on down, Doc."
      Footsteps coming down the stairs soon showed a man of fifty or so with 
graying hair and a full beard and mustache. He walked down the stairs to 
stand next to Spike, and right in front of Angel.
      "Ladies and gentlemen," Spike announced, with flourish. "Allow me to 
present . . ."
      "Geoffrey! Geoffrey Brown!" Giles exclaimed from the doorway. "Good 
God! Angel, all of you, let him pass. This is unbelievable."
      No one moved. "Geoffrey Brown. Geoffrey Brown," Wesley muttered, then 
as a light bulb went on, "Doctor Geoffrey Brown!"
      The graying man nodded as if he'd been asked a question. "Yes," he 
said, with an accent as British as Giles' and Wesley's.
      Wesley smiled then, turned to Angel. "It's all right, Angel. Giles is 
correct. Let him through. He's just what Doyle needs."
      Angel searched Wesley's eyes, saw genuine relief there. He stepped 
aside to let the doctor pass. "Sorry," he said as Dr. Brown stepped down 
beside him.
      "That's quite all right," Brown told him. "I would have done the same." 
Then he smiled, walked to Giles, his hand outstretched to meet the watcher's 
hand; they shook. "Rupert, it's good to see you again, although I gather the 
circumstances could be better."
      Angel wondered what Spike had told him, as Giles nodded, put his hand 
on the doctor's arm.            
      "Much better," Giles told him gravely. "Come, he's in here . . ." And 
together they walked into the bedroom, Wesley quickly following.
      Buffy and Riley joined Xander and Willow in the kitchen. Angel stood 
where he was, until Spike said, "Well, I've made my bloody delivery. Don't 
everyone thank me at once. And now, I'm out of here." He turned and started 
up the stairs.
      In three quick strides, Angel was up the stairs, one step ahead of him, 
blocking the punk-blond vampire, who struck his usual bored pose. "What, Angel?"
      "I want to know why, Spike. Why would you help us?"
      "Oh, trust me, Angel, I didn't do it for you."
      "Okay." Angel sighed at the technicality. "Why would you help Doyle, 
then?"
      "Well, the damn doctor wasn't doing me any good. I've still got this 
bloody chip in my head." He stopped at Angel's look. "Well, it's true. I 
don't think he wants to get it out, actually . . ."
      "Go figure," Xander said from the kitchen.
      "Shut-up, Xandy boy," Spike growled. "You'd love it if somebody put a 
chip in your head, and you couldn't . . ."      "Spike!" This came from Angel.
      "What!? Oh yeah, Doyle. Why would I help poor demon Doyle? I don't know 
really." Spike shrugged. "Maybe I just got a kick out of the way he stood up 
to me last year. Not that I wouldn't have killed him last year, of course. 
Maybe I don't take kindly to anybody else doing what I can't. Maybe I'm just 
trying to pile up a few credits with you and the Slayer's gang . . . then 
again, maybe not. Or maybe, just maybe, I thought your friend deserved a 
bloody break."
      "Yeah, right," Angel said sarcastically. "A break? From you, Spike? 
Since when do you think anybody deserves a bloody break? Besides yourself, of 
course."      "Since now."      "And it's as simple as that?"
      "Oh, come on, Angelus." Spike rolled his eyes at Angel. "You know as 
well as I do, that nothing is ever as bloody simple as that." But his eyes 
shifted away from the dark-haired vampire, as his face took on the look of 
someone who was remembering something he'd much rather forget. It was then 
that Angel recalled his comments about the Scourge, that he'd "met up with 
them a time or two." Spike looked back at Angel then, and said, "Except maybe 
this."
      Angel didn't reply, and Spike switched gears. "Well, I'm out of here, 
then. It's going to be daylight soon and the last thing I want is to be stuck 
here with all of you." He would have started up the stairs, but Angel stood 
firm, blocking his path.
      "You may have helped save his life, you know," Angel spoke the words 
quietly, reluctantly, truthfully.
      "Well," Spike grinned. "That would be a bloody first, now wouldn't it?"
      He then pushed by Angel, up the stairs, out of sight. Angel stood still 
and quiet, looking in the direction the other vampire had taken, until he 
heard the front door open and then close again. He stood there a moment more, 
shook his head as if to clear it of thoughts he couldn't quite comprehend, 
then he turned, and walked slowly down the stairs, through the living room 
and into the bedroom, where the doctor was examining Doyle.
      "That was weird," Xander commented as the group wandered out of the 
kitchen, to the living room, toward the bedroom. "That was very weird." 
Everyone nodded, but no one verbally responded, and Xander stopped talking as 
they neared the bedroom doorway, saw that the doctor had finished his 
thorough examination of Doyle.  
      He straightened, stood, and pulled the blankets up over Doyle's 
shivery, feverish body. Then, with a deep sigh, he turned to face them, 
ushered them out into the living room. He then turned to Giles. "Good God, 
Rupert, who or what has done this to him?"
      Giles glanced at Angel, whose gaze was fixed on the doctor. "Umm . . . 
some very bad beings, who are no longer of concern." Giles paused, swallowed, 
then asked, "Will he live, Geoffrey?"
      The doctor was silent a moment, considering his response. "I don't 
know, Rupert, but I will say this . . . if he were completely human, my 
answer would be no." A collective gasp went through the room. Angel and 
Cordelia felt his breath and her heart stop respectively. The doctor held up 
his hand to stop their immediate panic.  
     "But," he went on, "he's not completely human, and his Brachen half does 
give him, what I believe, is a fighting chance. It gives him added strength 
that an ordinary human wouldn't have. But I make no guarantees. I can't even 
give you a percentage of what his chances are. He's hurt, badly hurt. He's 
been beaten almost to the point of death I'd say. I suspect cracked or broken 
ribs, but without X-rays or scans I can't tell you anything more. He's 
battered and he's weak. He's dehydrated and malnourished. He has a raging 
infection somewhere in his body, with an ungodly high fever that, if left 
untreated, would kill him." He paused. "You've done a good job with the 
wounds, Rupert. Keep doing what you're doing. He also needs IV fluids and 
intravenous antibiotics. I'll get a supply of those, get him started on them, 
show you all how to administer them. I drew some blood from him. I'll see 
what I can glean from it. I have my own lab, so no one else will see the 
results." He turned to Angel. "It's going to be rough, Angel, an uphill 
battle all the way. He'll need constant care, constant monitoring. You'll 
have to continually sponge him down to help keep the fever at bay. And talk 
to him. Let him know that you're here for him, pulling for him, that you need 
him. I'm a firm believer that a person in a coma or in a high fever delirium 
such as Doyle's can hear us on some level." He stopped, then said, "Well, 
I'll go get what we need and be back as soon as I can."
      "I'll go with you," Wesley offered. "An extra pair of hands and all that."
      Brown nodded. "That would be good." He started toward the stairs, then 
suddenly stopped, his back to them all. "Rupert, you did notice the healing 
of some of his wounds, didn't you?"      "Yes," Giles said softly. "I did."
      "I've never seen anything like that."      "Nor I."
      The doctor left then, walking up the stairs, Wesley following. In the 
silence that followed they could hear the front door open and then close.
      Angel walked slowly back to the bedroom door, stood leaning on the 
doorframe, looking in at Doyle. "What did he mean about the healing, Giles?"
      Giles took a deep breath. "Some of Doyle's wounds, many of them, in 
fact, including what I would say are severe burns from the original Beacon, 
did not heal . . . naturally. Meaning that they were not healed by Doyle's 
own body or by any natural healing process. They're too clean, too perfect. 
They were healed . . . artificially somehow."
      "You mean . . . by the Scourge?" Xander asked, incredulous. "You mean, 
they inflicted injuries on him, and then healed him . . . on purpose? Why? I 
mean, it just doesn't seem like the 'Scourgie' thing to do."
      It was Angel who answered him, through clenched teeth, as rage silently 
engulfed him, "They did it, he did it, so that Doyle wouldn't die on them too 
soon." If Kana weren't already dead, Angel would have taken great pleasure in 
killing him, slowly, painfully, without mercy, right there, right then.
      Everyone but Giles was left speechless at the statement. "Exactly," he 
said, choking on the word. "My guess is that . . ." he swallowed, "they 
tortured him, many times, almost to the point of death, as Geoffrey said. And 
then, somehow, they would heal him, just enough to keep him alive. So then, 
of course, they could . . ."
      "Start the torture all over again," Buffy whispered.
      "Yes," Giles said.      "Oh God," Willow murmured.
      "I think I may be sick." Xander actually looked green.
      Silence for a moment, then, as they all stood looking at Doyle, all 
shocked by this horrific new insight into the half-demon's yearlong ordeal. 
All but Cordelia, who had more insight than she cared to. "No wonder," she 
murmured to herself. "No wonder."
      Finally, Giles shook himself. "All right everyone, there are things we 
can be doing while we wait for Geoffrey and Wesley to return. First of all," 
he glanced at Angel, "I'm sure we'll need some food in the house, of all 
varieties."      "We can do that," Buffy volunteered herself and Riley.
      "Also, we'll need some makeshift beds," Giles continued. "We'll sit 
with Doyle in shifts, and we'll need somewhere to rest in between."
      "We'll do that," Xander spoke up. Willow nodded.
      "I'll help you." Cordelia got shakily to her feet. "I know where 
everything is."      "Cordelia, you should rest," Giles told her.
      "Rest. Right. What I wouldn't give," Cordelia sighed. "Giles, you know 
as well as I do, I'm not going to get any rest through this, not with him 
this sick, in this much pain. Maybe if I try and stay busy . . ."
      Giles doubted it would help much, but said, "All right, Cordelia."
      Angel, still leaning against the doorframe, waited until the trio had 
left the room before he said in a soft, wooden voice, “You don't have to 
stay, you know."      "Oh, but we do, Angel," Giles told him.
      "And more than that, Angel," Buffy put in. "We want to stay. We want to 
see Doyle, and you, and Cordelia too, through this. You and Wesley, you'd 
have your hands full what with Doyle needing constant care. And Cordelia, 
she'll need some TLC too if she's going to be living with Doyle's nightmares 
in her head. It'd be a lot for you two to handle."
      "Yeah, and we're kind of involved now, Angel," Riley added. "We've all 
risked life . . . and death together, including Doyle, and I'd kind of like 
to see this through, and make sure he gets through."
      "As Dr. McCoy once said to Mr. Spock," Giles finished. "Yield to the 
logic of the situation, Angel."
      Angel actually smiled, a small one to be sure, but nevertheless, a 
smile. "You watch Star Trek?"      "Often, actually."
      Angel nodded, then said, "Thank-you. You're right. I'd be grateful for 
the help."
      "Good." Giles sounded satisfied. "Buffy, Riley, go get the food. Angel, 
why don't you get a basin of cool water and a rag. We'll get started sponging 
Doyle down."
      Angel nodded, felt like a zombie as he walked into the kitchen. His 
mind was reeling with too much information and too many emotions. Above it 
all, he could hear Kana's voice saying, He'll never survive what I did to 
him. Doyle will die, the doctor saying he could make no guarantees, 
elaborating on how serious Doyle's illness and injuries were. Angel closed 
his eyes, leaned against the counter for a minute or two. My God, I may lose 
him again. I really may lose him again . . . Then he went to do as Giles asked.


      Ninety minutes later, when Wesley and Geoffrey returned, Angel's place
was stocked with food for both vampire and human beings, beds were made, and
the apartment had been cleaned. Buffy sat at Doyle's bedside, gently sponging
the half-demon's face and neck. If his intermittent changes from human form
to green, spiky, Brachen form disturbed her, she gave no sign. Angel sat on
the other side of the bed, eyes on Doyle, who continued restless and
delirious with fever.
      Cordelia had tried to sit with him, but had soon discovered, to her
dismay, that the closer in proximity she was to Doyle, the more intense and
overwhelming the images and feelings she was receiving from him became, until
she simply couldn't tolerate them and had to leave the room. However, nothing
and no one, including Angel, could persuade her to go home to her apartment,
where the intensity might lessen even more.
      "I won't leave him," she said firmly. "Don't ask me to do that. I have
to stay as close as I can."
      No one had the heart to argue with her further. She went upstairs with
Xander and Wesley, as Dr. Brown took everyone else into the bedroom. He
worked quickly, slipping an IV into Doyle's arm, then starting the IV fluids
and antibiotics running through the new IV. He showed them all how to keep
the fluids going, and how to administer the antibiotics.
      "Every six hours without fail," he told them, then, "Well, we're doing
all we can now, and we'll keep doing it, but a lot of what happens depends on
Doyle himself, his will to fight, his will to live. That's why you must talk
to him, encourage him. You must help him to get back . . . to live."
      "How long before we know?" Giles asked.
      "If he can survive the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, then I
say he has a chance." Brown looked at Angel, handed him a card. "I'll come at
least twice daily, but call me if you need me sooner. As I said, it's going
to be rough, but, hopefully, we can persevere."
      The doctor did not lie. Even with two hundred plus years of living,
Angel found himself hard pressed to recall any hours and days rougher than
the ones he was dealing with now. The hardest part was watching Doyle suffer,
seeing and hearing him relive countless horrors from the past year with the
Scourge. Angel never left his side. He didn't sleep, ate only when it was
forced on him. He felt as if his heart was being ripped out as he listened to
Doyle beg for help and mercy that never came.  And then he felt that same
pain tear at his very soul, when it was Angel he called for to bring him that
help. And when the half-Brachen began to beg for death, it took Angel and
Riley both to hold him down to prevent him from doing himself an injury.
Angel held Doyle's hand, looked on as he turned from human form to Brachen
form and back again, and talked to him until his voice was hoarse. Then he
watched and listened as the others took over from him . . .
      They'd been sitting with Doyle in shifts, across the bed from Angel. It
didn't take them long to have it all down to a science . . . sitting with
him, changing dressings on his wounds, sponging his hot, feverish body,
keeping the IV fluids and antibiotics running, and talking to him when Angel
was too exhausted . . .
      Buffy regaled him with tales of Sunnydale, including several amusing
stories about Cordelia, some of which Angel had been unaware of and which he
knew would have delighted Doyle had he been awake and able to enjoy them.
Angel filed them away in his memory, to hopefully tell the half-demon later.
      Giles was a more reserved storyteller. He talked to Doyle about Brachen
history and the strength and resilience of the race, in hopes that the
knowledge would help Doyle realize that he could win his fight.
      Of all of them, Willow really got into the 'nursie' thing, often
staying longer than her scheduled time, murmuring healing spells in addition
to encouraging and gentle words, surrounding Doyle's body with healing
stones, placing a healing amulet around his neck, and even getting him to
swallow some healing teas.
      Riley had seemed uncertain at first; playing bedside nurse in any
capacity was foreign to him. However, he rose to the occasion, talking to
Doyle about some of his Initiative missions and how he could have used
someone as brave and loyal as Doyle many times.
      "I tell you what," he said, "if you ever get tired of working for this
guy," he nodded playfully at Angel, "come see me. I'll be glad to have you."
He sighed as he gently ran a cool rag over Doyle's hot, sweaty forehead,
listened to him murmur unintelligible words. "It's a funny thing, you know.
I've been trained--highly trained--to hunt, capture or kill demons and," he
looked at Angel, "vampires, because, I was told, they're all evil beings out
to destroy the world. Well, after this experience, I guess I'll be rethinking
some things." He looked back at Doyle. "So come on now, Doyle, come on. You
can't shake up my world like this, and then not be around to help me. So come
on! Fight!"
      The other two members of the team, Wesley and Xander, had remained
upstairs with Cordelia. They helped and comforted her, as she shivered, shook
and sobbed her way through Doyle's ordeal. As they watched her, they
shuddered to think about what Doyle was going through.
      And so, by 11:00PM on day three, which was also the day before what
would have been the year anniversary of Doyle's 'death', they were all
exhausted, and becoming discouraged, as Doyle's condition showed no signs of
improvement.
      Buffy had just left to go rest, and Giles had not come in yet, and so
Angel found himself alone with his unconscious and ill friend. He was
starting to despair, starting to believe that Kana's ugly promise was going
to come true . . . that Doyle could not and would not survive. He leaned
forward in his chair, arms on the bed, holding Doyle's hand in his,
bleary-eyed as he looked into Doyle's bruised and battered face.
      "Come on, Doyle," he said in a raspy voice. "Come on, fight! Fight this
thing. Don't let him win. We're all here. We're all pulling for you. We all
need you. I need you, Doyle, because without you, I'll be just so much dust
in the wind. So come on. Come back to me . . . to us. Fight! Come on, Doyle,
please . . ." He gave into his own emotions, his exhaustion, then, broke down
sobbing, his face buried in the blankets.
      Giles, who had been about to enter the room, and had heard every word
Angel had said, retreated to give Angel privacy and some time to pull himself
together. When he returned a few minutes later, he found Angel asleep, his
head cradled in his arms on the bed, one hand still covering Doyle's.
Quietly, Giles slipped into the room, hung the next antibiotic, and sat down
to start sponging Doyle's now-Brachen, now-human face.
      The clock struck midnight. It was the dawn of the day that one-year
ago, had seen Doyle's heroic leap onto that Beacon, and all the events that
had followed. Giles had stood up, walked across the room, stretching and
taking a small break. Angel remained asleep, when suddenly, a heartbreaking,
terrified scream cut through the air, jerking Angel awake; he and Giles both
bolted for the door. Angel flung it open to come face to face with a pale,
shaking, sobbing Cordelia on the threshold, Wesley and Xander on either side
of her, Buffy, Riley and Willow behind them.
      Angel put his hands on Cordelia's shoulders, could feel her shaking.
"What is it?'
      She looked up at him with wide, wild eyes in her pale, exhausted face.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come out.
      Wesley spoke for her, his own voice shaking. "She says . . . she says
she can't feel him anymore, Angel."
      "I can't," Cordelia choked it out. "All of a sudden, it just stopped.
All of it. I can't feel him, Angel, I can't . . ." She broke off, sobbing.
      Silence--ear-shattering silence--as Angel slowly turned to look at
Doyle. He was so still, so pale, so . . .
      "No!" Angel breathed it, unable to move. "No!"
      It was Giles who was finally able to walk, albeit slowly, to Doyle's
bedside. Everyone held their breath as he sat down on the bed, gently touched
Doyle's forehead, felt his wrist for a pulse, listened for breathing. He
closed his eyes for a moment, and, when he opened them, looked up at the
group, they were glistening with tears.
      "It's all right," he whispered in a broken voice. "It's all right. His
fever has broken, his pulse is steady, his breathing is regular. That's why
you think you can't feel him, Cordelia. You can, I think, it's just that the
intensity, the overwhelming pain is gone. And we're all so used to seeing him
struggle that, well, normal breathing looks like death." He smiled then, a
tired, but relieved, smile. "Everyone, I think he's going to be all right."
      Those words freed Cordelia. With an exultant cry, she ran to the bed.
Giles moved out of her way, and she threw herself down next to Doyle, her
face buried in his chest, sobbing out her joy and relief.
      Angel felt his head swim, felt his knees buckle beneath him. Riley and
Xander grabbed him, held him up, and helped him to his chair beside the bed.
Tears rolling down his cheeks, he reached out his hand to touch Doyle's now
cool one. Cordelia moved one of her hands over Angel's, and the two of them
held each other and Doyle in a light embrace. Buffy and group, all crying
with joy themselves, left the room together, and Giles softly closed the door.


      The good Dr. Brown confirmed Giles' diagnosis. "The fever has broken.
He's now sleeping naturally.  He should be all right. He'll be very weak,
very disoriented at first, and still in quite a bit of pain for awhile, but
he should be all right. We'll continue the antibiotics another twenty-four
hours or so, see how he does."  He looked at Angel.   "You should be here
when he awakens, Angel. He'll need to see you first."
      "Don't worry about that," Angel told him. "I'm not going anywhere."
      "None of us are," Giles stated. None of them except Wesley, Xander and
Cordelia, who had finally been convinced that going home to her own bed, and
getting some rest was the best thing she could do both for herself . . . and
for Doyle.
      "Because when he does wake up," Angel had told her, "he'll need you,
rested and at your best."
      Doyle slept for a long time, was still asleep that evening as Angel and
Giles sat with him. They had not spoken, and Angel would never make eye
contact with Giles anyway. Giles was determined to change that, however.
      "Angel . . ."
      Angel glanced up, but did not look directly at the ex-watcher. "Yeah?"
      "Listen, I don't know where you are in your quest for atonement, or
what events from your past you still punish yourself for, but if what
happened with Jenny . . ." He saw Angel wince. "If what happened with Jenny
and me are included in them, well, I've been watching you through all this,
Angel. I've seen your pain, your suffering about and with Doyle. And I want
you to know that as far as I'm concerned, anyway, you've more than atoned for
Jenny, and I'd really like us to start over, to start fresh, with a cleanslate."
      More than a little stunned, Angel looked up, and, for the first time in
years, looked Rupert Giles directly in the eyes. Giles was momentarily taken
aback, not prepared for the intensity of Angel's gaze. "I'm not sure what to
say, except thank-you, Giles. It means a lot to me to hear you say that.
Probably more than you know. What I did after I lost my soul has always
seemed more heinous to me then what I did before I ever got it. I don't know
why, except I've always thought that there should have been some part of me,
soul or not, that remembered who I really was." He sighed, shook his head.
"To tell you the truth, though, I'm not always really sure where I stand with
my own atonement, and not having Doyle with me has made it even harder to
know. No guide. So sometimes I've felt like I'm making progress, and other
times I'm not sure that I've made any headway at all. Hopefully, with Doyle
back, it'll be different, but right now I don't know what's been forgiven and
what hasn't. But it's good to know that you forgive me, because, yes, Jenny,
and what I did to you, too, are two of those things I definitely have not
gotten over."
      Giles simply nodded. Time would tell. Angel got up then, crossed the
room, stretched out the kinks in his back and shoulders. For an immortal, he
sure was tired.
It was then that Giles heard a soft moan from the bed. He quickly looked down
at Doyle, and his eyes widened as he watched the half-demon stir, heard him
moan again, observed his eyelids flicker. "Angel!"
      Angel turned at the urgency in Giles voice, and, again, their eyes met.
"He's coming around, Angel."
      In two quick, long strides, Angel was across the room, down on his
knees beside the bed. He and Giles watched anxiously as Doyle's eyelids
flickered a moment more. Then his eyes slowly opened to show their brilliant
blue. But they were also cloudy, unfocused, full of confusion and fear.
      With a quick glance at Giles, Angel spoke first, "Doyle? Doyle, can you
hear me?"
      "Angel?" Doyle's voice was so weak, they had to strain to hear it.
      "Right here, Doyle."
      "Angel?" Doyle said again, his voice full of fear. He held out his
hand. Angel took it, held it tightly in his own.
      "Yeah, Doyle. I'm right here. I wouldn't be anywhere else."
      Doyle closed his eyes, shook his head slightly, opened his eyes again,
tried to focus. He moved to sit up, but went back down with a moan of pain.
      Giles put a gently restraining hand on the half-demon's shoulder.
"Don't try to move too much, Doyle. You're not up to it."
      "Amen to that," Doyle said, in a slightly stronger voice, and Giles
smiled. Doyle turned his head toward Angel, still trying to focus in the
dimly lit room. "Angel . . . where are we?"
      "My place," Angel answered him.  Doyle had a death grip on his hand.
"You know, underneath the office."
      "Oh yeah, the batcave." A ghost of a smile touched Doyle's lips.
      "Yeah, the good old batcave. It's always fitting for a vampire." Angel
rejoiced to see that smile.
      "So, it is real, then?" Doyle asked, anxiety in his voice. "We're
really here. I'm really . . ."
      "Safe," Angel finished for him, knowing he was too afraid to say it.
"Yes, Doyle, you're here. You're safe. It's over. The nightmare is over."
      "Over . . ." Doyle closed his eyes, started to drift away, then
suddenly opened them again. "Cordelia, is she . . ."
      "She's okay, Doyle." Angel watched as Doyle again started to drop off
to sleep, fought to stay awake. "Don't fight it, Doyle, don't fight it. Go to
sleep. I promise you, that when you wake up, you'll still be right here. And
so will I."      "You're sure?" Doyle asked, still clutching Angel's hand.
      "Positive," Angel said firmly.
      "Okay. Okay . . ." Angel felt Doyle's hand relax, as he fell back tosleep.
      "Thank God," Giles whispered as, together, he and Angel watched Doyle
sleep. "Thank God."

******************************************************************************

      When Doyle next awoke, it was to find the room more brightly lit, and
seemingly full of people, most of whom he recognized on some level. There was
Buffy, of course, and Riley, who he knew he would never forget. He also
remembered Giles and Willow from the Scourge fortress: Giles, who had
convinced a reluctant Riley to take him back to the Beacon room, and Willow
with her spells. He also had a vague memory of her soft, gentle voice urging
him to drink this, it'll make you feel better, and he remembered that, in
some magical way, it had. Xander, and, most notably, Cordelia, were missing,
and Angel was standing in the doorway, listening as the one person Doyle
didn't recognize, a young, thin-faced man with glasses, was talking to him
earnestly. Doyle watched as Angel nodded, clapped the bespectacled man on the
shoulder. The man then said something that made Angel smile in such a way
that Doyle knew he knew this young man well. Then the man was gone.
      "Doyle!" It was Willow, startling him, who was first to notice that he
was awake and with them. Everyone stopped what they were doing, and
approached the bed, all smiling broadly at him. God, he must have been way
out of it, if they were all still here. He sensed that he owed them all . . .
a lot.      Angel reached him first, noting that his eyes were crystal clear and
focused. He was truly awake this time. "Hey, man, welcome back. How do youfeel?"
      Overwhelmed. Doyle managed a smile as everyone else reached the bed.
"Well, a little, or a lot, actually, like a freight train ran me over, but
other than that, okay, I guess."
      "It's good to have you back," Buffy told him. Riley winked, and Willow
smiled at him warmly, and then, not wanting to overwhelm him any more than he
already was, they tactfully moved away, leaving Angel and Giles with him.
      This was so strange and he knew he needed to talk to these people, to
thank them, to tell them that he was grateful from the bottom of his heart.
      But, first things first. "Angel, where's Cordelia? You did say she was
okay . . . didn't you?"      "Yes, she is."
      "Then, where is she, man? I mean, here I am, back from the dead, and .
. . she's not here?" Doyle's hoarse, weak voice held a desperate note and,
boy, he could really use some water . . . Willow appeared suddenly, with a
glass of water. She gave him a drink. "Thank-you. But how did you know?"
Willow just smiled, shrugged slightly as she put the glass down on the
bedside table, then drifted back over to Buffy and Riley. Doyle shook his
head, refocused on the matter at hand, and turned back to Angel, his voice a
little stronger. "Well, Angel?"
      Angel hesitated, looked at Giles, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged
a little.   Angel realized that Doyle needed to know all, but just wasn't
sure how much heavy conversation he could handle right now.
      Angel's hesitation frightened Doyle a little. "Angel, is she all right
or not?"      "Yes, Doyle, she's okay. It's just . . ."      "Just what?"
      "Okay," Angel sighed, sat down in his chair next to the bed. He
obviously wasn't going to get away with not talking about this. He decided to
be blunt. "When you gave her the visions, you . . ."
      "What?" Doyle interrupted, pure shock in his voice. "Wait! Wait a
minute . . . gave her the visions. What are you talking about? I didn't give
her the visions . . . did I?" Doyle looked from Angel to Giles and back
again, distressed and confused.
      "Well, she has them, has had them since, well, since you've been gone."
Angel paused, studied Doyle's face. "You really don't know anything about it,
do you?"
      "No, man. If I gave them to her I . . . certainly didn't mean to. How
do you think I . . ." Doyle stopped as light dawned. "When I kissed her."
      "That's what we think. You truly didn't do it on purpose?"
      "No! No, I didn't." Doyle's weak voice was so vehement that Angel had
to believe him. "Now, the Powers, they're another story, but no, I kissed her
because I wanted to. But, I wouldn't have if I'd thought it would do that.
God, Angel, I wouldn't wish those skull-splitting things on anybody, let
alone Cordelia."
      "Well, however it happened," Giles told him, "it's a good thing they
were passed on to her. It was a vision that told us you were alive Doyle, and
where you were."
      Doyle heard him, understood, nodded, but his thoughts were on Cordelia.
"Poor Princess. No wonder she's avoiding me like the plague."
      "She's not avoiding you like the plague, Doyle," Angel told him gently.
"She . . ."      "But she is avoiding me?"      "I wouldn't use the word avoid."
      "Then what word would you use?" Doyle asked, feeling frustrated,
dejected, rejected. "If it's not the visions, Angel, then what? The fact that
I'm half-demon, then? That part of me has been totally out of control, hasn't
it? How many times has she been forced to see it? She probably . . ."
      "Doyle, she doesn't care about that, and you know it."
      But he didn't, not really, had never gotten the chance to find out.
"Then what, Angel?"
      "When you gave her the visions . . ." Angel stopped at Doyle's look.
"When she was given the visions, okay? Somehow, that also created a channel,
a connection between the two of you--a one way connection it appears--that
has remained open for the past year. Doyle, you have been sending her
messages, images, from your mind to hers, since, well, the minute those
visions became hers." He paused, looked into Doyle's pale, bruised, battered
face; he was clearly shocked, and, for once, speechless. "Now, these
messages, these images, at first, they were coming to her subconsciously,
mostly in the form of dreams. This went on for months, but she . . . we
didn't have a clue that they were anything but dreams, until she received the
vision telling us . . ." he had to stop for a moment, feeling overwhelmed
with grateful emotions, "telling us that you were alive. That broke the
connection wide open, and for the past five, six days, she's . . . quite
literally been feeling what you feel. In a very real way, Doyle, what you've
gone through, she's gone through."
      Silence as Doyle thought about that, let it sink in. "So, you're saying
that for the past week, she's been feeling everything I have been . . . all
the pain, all the fear, all the . . . everything?" His voice shook, and he
didn't look at Angel.      Angel watched Doyle carefully. "More or less, yes."
      Doyle gave a small laugh that held no humor. He closed his eyes for a
minute, let out a deep, trembling sigh. When he opened his eyes, looked at
Angel, they were full of tears. "Then you're wrong, Angel. She is avoiding me
like the plague. Believe me, she is."
      "No, Doyle," Giles gently interjected. "Not you, no. But the
overwhelming intensity of the images and feelings you've been sending her,
yes. It's not your fault and you shouldn't think that it is, but now you know
why she couldn't be with you. She desperately wanted to be with you, Doyle,
wanted to stay with you . . . tried to stay with you, until she was forced
away. But even then, though it was still painful, she still would only go as
far away as upstairs, until she knew you were out of danger."
      "And then we made her go home, Doyle," Angel said. "She's exhausted,
has gotten no rest at all. She just needs some rest, like you do, but she's
okay. Xander and Wesley have been with her. She's fine. And, believe me when
I tell you, when both of you are ready, no power anywhere will keep her away
from you." He stood up then, patted Doyle's arm comfortingly.
      "Yeah, okay," Doyle answered softly. But he didn't sound sure, and he
didn't look at Angel, was thinking about how much he, however
unintentionally, had burdened her.
      Giles looked at Angel as though asking for permission to proceed, and
Angel nodded slightly. Giles then told Doyle, "I've known Cordelia for quite
some time, Doyle. Now, I realize you don't know me very well, and thus you
have no reason to believe me, and I also know that Cordelia isn't always
easily understood, but all I can do is ask you to believe and understand that
she does care about you, very deeply indeed."
      Doyle still looked doubtful, but said nothing further.
      "What you need to focus on, Doyle, is that you are alive," Giles
continued. "Focus on that, and on getting stronger." He hesitated, then
decided to go ahead and change the subject from one unsettling topic to
another; it was something they needed to find out about anyway, and if it was
too much for Doyle right now, they would know, could back off. "And speaking
of that miracle, I was wondering, if you feel up to it, if I could ask you a
question?"
      "Yeah, sure." Doyle was actually glad of the change. "Fire away, man."
      "I don't want to tax you or cause you unnecessary stress, so if you'd
rather not answer I'll understand, but I am curious. If my understanding of
the Beacon is correct, then hanging onto it the way you were, being touched
by its light . . . in all reality, it should have . . ."
      "Killed me," Doyle said simply.      "Well, yes."
      "Believe me, there were times when I wished it had . . ." Doyle stared
off into space for a moment, then shook himself. "And you want to know why it
didn't?"      "Well, yes, if you know, and if you feel up to telling us."
      "Oh, yeah I know, believe me. They . . . he was quick to tell me all
about it. It was burning me, did burn me, pretty badly, actually. But they .
. ." He stopped, looked up at Giles; his eyes begged him not to make him talk
about that subject right now.
      "We know that they healed you, Doyle," Giles said gently. "We saw the
scars. Tell us about the Beacon."
      Doyle nodded his gratitude; he would expect them all to be curious
about the healed wounds, was grateful that Giles wasn't pressing him.
"Actually, it's fairly simple, really. It turns out the Beacon had a sensor
built into it."      "A sensor?"
      "Yeah." Doyle nodded. "It, the sensor, tells the damn thing when it 's
being tampered with, when someone is trying to disarm it. Then, the sensor
generates a signal that, in turn, activates a transportation device, which
teleports the transgressor, that was the word he used, to the . . ." his
voice suddenly dropped in volume, "Beacon's point of origin."
      "And that's how you ended up with the Scourge."
      "That's how." Doyle nodded, again staring off into space. "One minute I
was hanging onto that thing, trying to unplug it. The next, I was where you
found me."
      Silence, for a minute, as Angel and Giles contemplated that, as Angel
thought of the discrepancies between what Doyle had just told them and what
the Oracles had said, just over a year ago.
      Some of what he was thinking must have shown on his face, for he was
jolted out of his thoughts by Doyle's anxious voice.  "What, Angel?"
      "Nothing," Angel said it too quickly, and his eyes slid away from Doyle.
      "Yeah, right, nothing my . . ." Doyle stopped, panic now edging his
voice. He would have sat up, had weakness and pain not kept him down. He
looked toward Giles pleadingly, then back at Angel. "Don't do this to me,
Angel, please. I've been out of the loop long enough, man, haven't I? Don't
keep me there, please. What's going on?"
      Angel hesitated, and Giles said softly, "I think you should tell him,
Angel."      "Tell me what?" Doyle was frightened now, becoming desperate.
      "All right." Angel dropped back down onto his knees beside the bed, so
he was eye level with his friend. "The day after you . . . 'died', I went to
see the Oracles."      "You went to the Oracles? For me?"
      "Yes." Angel shook his head, as if to say what a question. "I asked
them to . . ." He glanced at Buffy, and even though there was no way she
could hear or know what he was talking about even if she did, he found
himself lowering his voice, "turn back time, twenty-four hours, so I could
stop or change what happened. They said no. They said they wouldn't do it,
they said they couldn't do it. They said," he paused, looked away, then
straight into Doyle's eyes as he said, "They said you were dead, Doyle."
      Silence, as they regarded each other, both of them in intense pain,
Doyle's mixed with rising panic. Angel wished there were some way he could
alleviate both.
      It was Doyle who spoke, his voice a shock-laced whisper, "But I'm not."
      "I know."      "Then why would they say that?"      "I don't know."
      "And it was the Powers who told you that I was alive?"
      "With a vision, yes."      "Then it doesn't make sense."
      "Not to me, it doesn't."
      Doyle had looked away from Angel. Now he looked directly at him, his
eyes filled with tears and fear. "Do you suppose I'm not supposed to be here,
then? And if not here, then where?"
      Angel moved then, up onto the bed, sat next to Doyle, put his hands
gently on Doyle's shoulders--maintained eye contact as he said, "Don't do
this, Doyle. Don't be afraid." Easy for him to say. "We'll figure it out. As
soon as you're strong enough, we'll go see the Oracles and we'll get the
answers. But know this, Doyle," He shook the half-demon slightly, not enough
to hurt him, just enough to make sure he had his attention; he did, "no
matter what happens, or what they tell us, I won't let you go. I won't."
      Doyle nodded silently, and Angel released him, moved to stand by Giles,
who he sensed had something he wanted to say, privately. Indeed, Giles
whispered, "Don't take too long to pay them a visit, Angel. He doesn't need
to be kept hanging; he'll make himself crazy. You just might make yourself
crazy too, so get it resolved as soon as possible, and call me if you need
any help." Angel nodded, and he moved away, ostensibly to speak with the
others, but really to give Angel and Doyle some privacy.
      Angel went back to sit by the bed, leaned back in the chair that now
seemed like home to him, looked at Doyle, concern in his eyes. "You okay?"
      "Yeah, sure." Doyle nodded, but didn't look at Angel. He felt like his
mind and his life were spinning out of control, once again. "Just a lot to
wake up to, that's all."      "Too much," Angel agreed.
      "So, when do I get rid of all this, then?" Doyle gestured at the IV and
the IV fluids still dripping into his arm.
      "The doctor will be by later. We'll see what he thinks."      "Doctor?"
      "Yeah. Dr. Geoffrey Brown. He's a MD and a Demonologist. Giles and We .
. . Giles knows him." Angel almost bit his tongue off to keep from saying
'Wesley'. "Actually, Spike brought him."      "Spike? And you trust him?"
      "Spike? No. And don't ask, because I don't know why he did it, exactly.
But, the doctor? Yes, I trust him. Like I said, Giles knows him. And if not
for him, Doyle, you'd be dead. You were one sick half-demon," Angel assuredhim.
      "I believe you. And, I think, I'd be dead if it weren't for a lot of
people." Doyle looked around the room, and thought of all the people, present
and not, who had risked their lives or done good deeds to save his. And
speaking of all the people . . . Doyle closed his eyes. Angel hadn't covered
his almost saying 'Wesley' slip quite well enough. Doyle knew what he had
been about to say. And so, with a deep breath, he figured, what the heck, he
might as well carry on with, what Cordy would call, his 'parade of pain'.
      "So," he said, opening his eyes, startling Angel who had thought he was
on his way back to sleep. "Who's this Wesley guy?" He saw Angel's shocked and
dismayed look, smiled slightly. "Is he the guy with the glasses, not Giles,
obviously, that I saw you talking to earlier? The one you said was with
Cordelia?"
      Did I say that? Angel thought. And when did he see me talking to him?
This was not how Angel had planned to introduce Wesley. Momentarily
speechless, he nodded.
      "So, he's been working with you, then?" Doyle asked, bracing himself
for what he already knew he would hear.
      Angel had obviously not been planning on this, at all. His guilty,
distressed look spoke volumes before he ever said a word. "Yes." A pause,
then, "Doyle . . ."
      Doyle took pity on him. "It's all right, Angel," he broke in quietly.
"I was . . . dead. You needed to move on."  Which was true, but it still
hurt, more than Doyle had realized it would.
      Angel closed his eyes, tried to find the right words. The last thing he
wanted to do was to hurt Doyle in any way, but he knew he had. Move on. Yeah,
right, as if he'd ever done that. He opened his eyes. "Doyle, look, Wesley is
not your replacement. I never went looking for a replacement. I never would
have. I could never replace you. I hope you know that. You're . . .
irreplaceable." He paused. "Wesley is a friend. We, Cordelia and I, knew him
from Sunnydale. He was on the Watcher's counsel. He was also fired from the
Watcher's counsel. The last time I saw him, before here, was at the high
school graduation." He shook his head; that was another story. "We literally
ran into each other, by accident, not long after we'd . . . lost you. We were
hunting the same demon if you want to believe that. And yeah, we got
re-involved in each others lives, and . . . he kind of just stayed, but there
was nothing planned about it Doyle." Angel chuckled a little, as much as a
vampire can chuckle. "Sometimes he's been quite a big nuisance, but he's also
been quite helpful, too. In fact . . ."
      "What about him and Cordelia?" Doyle, unable to contain himself
anymore, burst out, totally without warning.
      "What?" Angel felt suddenly off balance.
      "You said he's been with her . . ."
      "Yeah, he's been staying with her, helping her through this whole
ordeal with you." Angel suddenly understood what Doyle meant. "Oh no, Doyle,
you've got no worries there. Cordelia still pretty much sees him as a
nuisance. You've got no competition coming from him." Or anyone else, he
almost said, but then thought he'd better let Cordelia say something forherself.
      "Okay." Doyle actually relaxed a little.
      "Now, what was I saying?" Doyle's question had thrown Angel off.
      "You said he's been helpful," Doyle supplied.
      "Yeah." Angel suddenly grew very serious. Doyle watched and listened
carefully, knowing that what Angel had to say was important. "Actually, Doyle
. . ." Angel was rather embarrassed to admit his next words, "When Cordelia
first came to me with the vision of you being alive, I didn't believe it. I
couldn't believe it. I was afraid to believe it. Wesley was the one who made
me believe it, who convinced me that it could be true. Truly, Doyle, if it
weren't for Wesley . . . I don't know if we would have gotten to you in time."
      There were absolutely no words that would even begin to cover that, and
it was between him and Wesley anyway, so Doyle merely nodded. He was suddenly
exhausted.
      Angel saw his exhaustion, stood up, and pulled a light blanket up over
him. "You're tired. And no wonder. Sleep now.  We'll talk later."
      "Okay," Doyle mumbled it. His mind was full, too full. Full of Cordelia
and visions, the Scourge, the Oracles and their pronouncement of his death,
Wesley and his faith in the visions that had helped to save him. And on and
on it went. It felt good to let go, to slide into an exhausted sleep. And for
the first time in a long time, it was dreamless.


      This time when he woke up, it was to see a graying man with a beard and
mustache leaning over him, holding a stethoscope to his chest. The man
finished listening to Doyle's heart and lungs, then straightened, took the
stethoscope out of his ears, and smiled. "Doyle. Awake and aware, I see. It's
nice to meet you."      Angel spoke then, "Doyle, this is Doctor Brown."
      Doyle had surmised as much. He smiled back at the doctor, reached up
his hand without the IV and the doctor took it. "It's nice to meet you too,
Doctor. Angel tells me that you saved my life."
      The doctor smiled broader, but shook his head. "No," he said, gestured
to the others in the room. "These people saved your life. I just helped out a
little."
      Doyle knew that was an understatement, but he said simply, "Thank-you."
      The doctor nodded, winked, released Doyle's hand, and began the task of
taking the IV down. "Based on what Angel's told me, and what I see for
myself, I'd say we're safe in taking this IV away. Does that sound okay to
you? Do you think you can take in fluids orally all right?"
      "That sounds great to me, and, yeah, I think I'm okay."
      "Okay, we'll try it and see how you do." Doctor Brown finished removing
the IV, put away his equipment, then patted Doyle gently on his shoulder.
"You look good, Doyle. Just take it easy, and don't push it. Rest. Eat and
drink what you can. I'll see you tomorrow."
      He turned, drew Angel with him to the door. "He's doing remarkably
well. It's that Brachen half of his. He'll progress pretty rapidly now. Oh,
he'll still be weak and sore for a while, but he'll do well. Just get him
fed, keep him hydrated, keep those healing wounds clean, and he'll be as good
as new. Remarkable. Good job, Angel." He turned to the group. "Good job all
of you."
      "Thank-you, Doctor Brown. I don't know what we would have done without
you," Angel told him. "I don't how Spike found you . . ."
      "Spike." Doctor Brown rolled his eyes. "Persistent little Cockney
vampire. He's been at me for months about that chip. He'll have to find
someone else to take it out for him, but I'm glad I listened to him aboutthis."
      "So am I," Angel agreed. "Although I'm still not sure why Spike . . ."
      Doctor Brown grinned. "Oh, it was priceless. He said, 'There's this
feisty little mick demon who's had the stuffing beaten out of him.
Half-Brachen, I think.' And then he held up his hands, oh-so-innocently, and
assured me that he hadn't hired it done, either. 'Actually, I think I'd like
a crack at 'im myself one of these days, just to see if this chip works on
half-demons. Think maybe you could keep him kicking around awhile longer?'
Personally, though, Angel, I think he had another agenda altogether, but
don't ask me what it was. He did say something about the way 'that mick' had
stood up to him last year. 'Can't have that,' he kept saying.  So, I don'tknow."
      Despite himself, Angel laughed. "Well," and he glanced back at Doyle,
"you never can tell with Spike. Sometimes, he's right to the point, other
times . . . who knows? I'm just glad he brought you, whatever his reasons."
Angel offered his hand. "Thank-you again. For everything."
      The doctor shook the vampire's hand. "You're welcome, Angel. Take care
of him now. I'll see you tomorrow."  He left.
      Buffy and group then approached Doyle.
      "We're gonna go," Buffy told him. "You're doing a lot better, and I've
got this pesky hellmouth to patrol."
      "Yes, she does," Giles agreed. "And you need to rest, Doyle. Tough to
do that when you've got a bunch of people hanging about." He moved to Doyle
then, gently touched his arm. "Doyle, you don't know how glad I am that you
are doing this well. If you need help of any kind," and Doyle knew he meant,
first and foremost, the Oracles, "don't hesitate to call me."
      "Thanks, Giles." Doyle squeezed his arm. "I'm hoping I won't need you,
but if I do, you'll be the first to know. Thanks for everything."
      Giles nodded, drifted to the doorway where Angel still stood. "That
goes for you too, Angel. In fact, I want you to call me, whether you need
help or not. I'd like to know what happens, what they tell you . . . what
Cordelia says to him."
      "I'll do it," Angel laughed, watching as Willow, almost shyly,
approached his friend.
      Willow handed Doyle two small bags of powder. "Mix a teaspoon in a cup
of water or tea or whatever. It'll help with the pain." Unbidden, tears came
to her eyes. "I'm so glad you're all right. I'm so sorry they hurt you the
way they did. I'm just . . ."
      Doyle understood. "Thanks Willow." And liking her genuine sweetness, he
gently pulled her down to kiss her cheek. Willow actually blushed, and Doyle
thought, Wow, if I wasn't so hung up on Cordelia . . . He stopped the thought
as Willow said softly, "Good-bye, Doyle." She gently pulled away, and wasgone.
      Next was Riley, who knelt down beside the bed, shook Doyle's hand in a
firm, yet gentle, grip, carefully avoiding contact with the half-demon's
bandaged wrist. "Well. It's been interesting."
      "You could say that," Doyle agreed. "Sure hope you're not too sore
after getting rammed into that wall."
      "No, I'm pretty tough. I've been through worse. And, after all, I am
dating the slayer. She definitely keeps me on my toes and in pretty good . .
." he winked, "condition."
      "Yeah, I bet she does." Doyle smiled slightly, but was too overwhelmed
with gratitude to keep the tears from coming to his eyes as they met Riley's,
the memory of that moment in the Beacon room clear in his mind. "You held my
life, literally, in your hands, Riley. I would have died; he would have
killed me, if you hadn't done what you did." Doyle swallowed, hard. "Thanks."
      Riley nodded. "You're welcome. It wasn't just me, though. And thank-you
, Doyle, because, you know, we didn't just save your life, you saved ourstoo."
      "He's right about that, you know, Doyle," Angel called from the
doorway. "You saved us all. And probably a good portion of the rest of
humanity as well."      "Amen," said Buffy softly.
      "So, if you ever need a job," Riley grinned, glancing at Angel, "give
me a call."      "I would." Doyle grinned back at him.
      "No way. His evil boss would never let him go." Angel shook his head
resolutely.
      Riley laughed. Then he squeezed Doyle's hand. "See ya." He released
Doyle's hand, and was gone.
      Buffy was last. She approached the bed, leaned down to kiss Doyle
gently on the cheek. "He'd be lost without you, Doyle," she whispered into
his ear. "He's been lost without you."
      "And I without him," Doyle said just as softly. "You do know how hard
it was for him to come to you for help, don't you?"      "I do."
      "I'm sure glad you took him up on it, though."
      "Me too, but I couldn't and wouldn't do anything else." She paused.
"Take care of him for me, Doyle."
      "I will. As much as he'll let me. Thank-you, Buffy. For my life . . .
for everything."
      "Umm . . . you're welcome, of course." Buffy shook her head. "But, as
Riley said, thank-you. You're the real hero here. And, remember, coming from
the slayer, that's a compliment." She smiled at him, winked.
      "Couldn't ask for a better one than that." Doyle smiled back at her.
      Buffy chuckled, straightened. "Take care, Doyle. I'm sure we'll see
each other again."
      "I don't doubt it." He watched as she turned and walked to the door, to
Angel. Then he tried not to watch.
      At the door, next to Angel, Buffy hesitated. She'd gone over and over
in her mind what she wanted to say to him, and now no coherent words would
come. "Angel, I . . ."
      Angel knew it was about the kiss. "It's okay, Buffy. Don't struggle
with it. It . . . was just a good-luck kiss between friends. We both know it
can't be anymore than that."
      "I know, and I do really care for Riley. It's just, every time I see
you . . ."
      "I know. And I understand. Believe me, I understand." Angel gave her a
sad smile; his eyes held that look she couldn't comprehend. "You and Riley
take care. And be happy."      "You too."
      "Well, now that I have Doyle back, I'm as happy as I can be. As for the
other, maybe someday. Who knows?"
      They stood there a moment more, looking into each other's eyes. Then
Buffy took a deep, shaky breath . . . and was gone. Angel closed the door
behind her, leaned against it for a long second or two, and then turned toDoyle.
      For the first time, they were alone.
      "You gonna be okay with those two, then?" Doyle asked, watching Angel
carefully.
      "As okay as I can be," Angel said, crossing the room to sit by the bed.
"He makes her happy, I think, and he's a good guy. He sure came through forus."
      "Yeah, absolutely, man. I can't argue with that," Doyle agreed.
      "And he's right, you know, Doyle. You did save us all." Angel shook his
head in wonder. "Just like on the Quintessa . . ."
      "Yeah, about the Quintessa. I can't believe I haven't asked. What about
Reif, and all the Lister demons? Did they get off all right, then?"
      "Yeah, they got off just fine. Thanks to the 'Promised One.'" Angel
smiled at Doyle.      "Well, I don't know about that . . ."
      "Well, they do, believe me. And so do I," Angel told him. "That reminds
me. I need to call Reif, tell him the good news."
      "So, you've kept in touch, then? They are doing okay?"
      "Yeah," Angel said, nodding. "It's a little isolated where they are;
that took some getting used to, I think. Sure beats the alternative, though."
      "Yeah. No doubt about that. It sure does." This Doyle knew all too well.
      Angel leaned back in his chair, suddenly studying Doyle with a look the
half-demon couldn't quite read. "No doubt is right. You know, Doyle, that was
quite a sacrifice you took it upon yourself to make."
      This time, it was Angel's tone that Doyle couldn't quite place.
However, it sounded suspiciously like something he'd feared all along . . .
Doyle's voice shook as he asked, "You were angry with me, then?"
      "Angry. Yeah, I guess you could say I was." Angel nodded, watched as
Doyle closed his eyes, turned away, obviously pained at Angel's response.
Angel's expression softened then, he leaned over, took Doyle's chin in his
hand, gently turned the half-demon's face toward him, looked directly into
his tear-filled eyes. "But not with you, Doyle. Not with you. I couldn't be
angry with you." He watched as Doyle let out a shaky, relieved sigh, released
him, then went on, " I mean, you saved my life. You saved all our lives. You
saved countless lives. I hope you know that. But, was I angry? Yeah, I felt
anger. At the situation. At those self-righteous Oracles, telling me what
they 'couldn't' do, when it was what they wouldn't do. Yeah, anger.
Frustration. Helplessness that led to hopelessness. And grief and guilt like
I've never known them, never wanted to know them. And I've known a lot of
grief and guilt, Doyle"
      "I know you have, but this wasn't your fault, Angel," Doyle told him
quietly, earnestly, feeling guilty himself now. "I . . ."
      "It should have been me, Doyle!" Angel broke in, his voice full of
anguish. "Everything you've been though, everything they did to you, it
should have been me!  Don't you see? I'm the 'warrior'; it was my job, my . .."
      "No, Angel!" Doyle interrupted, vehemently. "Don't you see?! It
shouldn't have been you; it couldn't have been you! You're right, you are the
warrior, the one that the Powers that Be brought back from the very depths of
hell to serve them, the one that they brought back to help the helpless, the
weak. They needed you, Angel! So, you see, man, it could not have been you.
It had to be me."
      "You say that they needed me. But here's the thing, Doyle . . . I
needed you." Angel's voice was almost inaudible.
      "I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry that I hurt you. I'm sorry that you felt
such guilt, when you weren't responsible. But it doesn't change anything,"
Doyle told him, his voice trembling. "I still think it had to be me."
      "Obviously." Angel looked up, into the half-demon's blue eyes. He
winced at the pain he saw there. "I'm sorry, Doyle. I don't mean to give you
a hard time about all this. I don't want to make you feel badly. It's over
and done. You didn't do anything wrong. You did what you thought was right.
I'm just sorry you had to suffer so much." Angel paused. "And they call me a
warrior. Look at you. What you did that night on the Quintessa was amazing.
And then with Kana . . . If you hadn't come back, done what you did, who
knows where Buffy and I would be right now. Anyway, for all of it, thank-you."
      "I just did what I had to do, Angel. Just as you have, countless times,
for me, for others." Doyle paused, was grateful for the change in subject.
"But I couldn't have done it at all, if you hadn't saved me first. I don't
know if you'll ever know how I felt, when I realized you were really there;
that you'd come for me. So, thank-you."
      Angel, sensing that there was more to come from Doyle about all this,
at some point, merely nodded. The two sat in silence for a few minutes, until
Angel noticed the half-demon now watching him intently, with a look in his
blue eyes that he couldn't quite read. He sensed the 'more to come' was just
about here. "What, Doyle?"
      Doyle looked away hurriedly; he seemed embarrassed at having been
caught. "Nothing, Angel, it's all right."
      "Oh, but you don't have a nothing face, you have a something face,"
Angel told him, quoting Buffy.      "What?" Doyle looked puzzled.
      Angel waved the quote away. "You were looking at me like you were
seeing a ghost. What's going on?"
      "Like seeing a ghost. Yeah, maybe." Doyle ran a suddenly trembling hand
over his face, let out a breath.  "I don't know, man, sometimes I don't know
where I am. It's like . . . sometimes I'm scared none of this is real, that
I'm really still locked up in that place. That he still has me. And any
minute he's gonna come in and break the spell, and start the torture all over
again. Sometimes, I'm scared that I've really just lost my mind. That I'm
just making all this up in my head, because I want it so badly . . ." He
broke off, a wild, panicked look coming into his eyes.
      Angel moved then, quickly from the chair to the bed. He grabbed Doyle's
trembling hand, held it tightly, sensing a well-deserved meltdown coming on.
"Doyle, listen to me. Feel my hand holding yours, okay? It's all right.
Kana's gone. The Scourge is gone. They will never hurt you again. If it's up
to me, the worst thing you'll ever have to face from this moment on is one of
Cordelia's infamous temper tantrums." He was rewarded by a faint, weak smile,
but Doyle's trembling did not lessen. "And it's real, Doyle. I promise you,
it's all real."
      "I know," Doyle nodded, but he clung to Angel's hand as if it was a
lifeline, and maybe it was. "I really do know. It's just . . . I never knew,
you see . . ." He paused, a long pause; it was so long that Angel felt forced
to say, "Never knew what?"
      "I never knew whether I'd done it or not." Doyle's voice shook; he
stopped, tried to get it under control. "Until that moment, in the Beacon
room, when I opened my eyes and saw your face, felt your tears, heard your
voice say my name, I never knew whether you or Cordelia or those poor
half-Lister demons were alive or dead. I never knew if I'd pulled that damn
plug in time. I hoped and prayed I had, but I didn't know. That was part of
the torture, you see. His torture. Never letting me know if I'd saved you or
not. I mean, I knew something had happened." He raised his eyebrows in his
typical Doyle way. "He was furious with me, and I knew it was more than my
just being a half-breed. If that were the case, they would have killed me
right away. And, of course, their building that new and improved Beacon spoke
volumes, but . . . I still never knew." He gave a humorless laugh. "That
really gave him a lot of pleasure, watching me agonize over that. It was just
another part of the torture, one of too many to count. Oh, God . . ." His
head dropped then, and a repressed sob broke through from deep inside his
chest; he actually squeezed Angel's hand tighter. "Oh God, Angel, they hurt
me."  He lifted his head then, his agony-filled eyes looking directly into
Angel's. "They really hurt me."
      "I know they did," Angel whispered, his voice torn by emotion. "I know
they did."
      Doyle's eyes remained dry as he continued, although his voice and his
entire body were shaking, "And as much as I wanted to fight, wanted to
believe that you were alive . . . as much as I wanted to live in the
beginning, and, believe me, I wanted to. I wanted to get back to you and
Cordelia. But as much as I had wanted to live, that's how much I ended up
needing to die, maybe even fighting to die, because I came to believe, I came
to know that death was my only way out. Even if you and Cordelia were alive,
you thought I was dead. I didn't know about the visions, so I knew that no
matter how many dreams I had, no matter how badly I wished for it, you
couldn't help me. And so death was my only way out." He paused, closed his
eyes. "But they . . . he wouldn't let me die. Oh, he'd take me to the brink,
past it maybe, over and over again. He'd torture me, beat me, hurt me, until
I knew . . . I knew he'd taken me past--what should have been--the point of
no return. And every time, every time I'd think, I'd pray, that maybe this
time he'll just let me go. Please, just let me go." He stopped again as his
voice broke. Angel was held motionless. "But, of course, he wouldn't,
couldn't let me go. They'd bring in their . . . healing machine, what Giles
was wondering about, I'm sure. You know, in the right hands, I'm sure it
would be a medical miracle, but, for me, it was just another part of the
torture." He opened his eyes, looked at Angel. "Incredible isn't it, man, how
being healed could be considered torture?" He heaved a huge, trembly sigh.
"He'd heal me just enough to keep me alive and conscious, to keep me going,
ready for the next round, and, of course, ready for when they completed their
Beacon." He closed his eyes. "You know, I don't know how I didn't lose my
mind . . ." He suddenly drew a sharp intake of breath, opened his eyes,
looked at Angel as a sudden thought, a sudden memory struck him. "Or maybe I
do. Maybe that connection between Cordelia and me wasn't quite as one way as
you thought."
      "What do you mean?" Angel barely managed to get the words out.
      "I don't remember getting any direct images or messages or feelings
from her, but," he smiled slightly, looked away from Angel, "all those dreams
I kept having . . . some really sweet dreams. And dreams of you and Cordelia
coming to save me. Maybe some of them were hers. Maybe all of them were . . .
coming from her sleeping mind to mine. Her dreams to mine; changing my bad
dreams to good, and keeping me sane in my sleep, when being awake was the
nightmare." Another sudden sob racked his body, and Angel knew he was ready
to break. He moved closer to his friend, waited . . .
      Doyle looked at Angel then, his eyes suddenly, finally, spilling over
with tears; they ran down his cheeks, as he choked out his next words, "And
so, when I saw you there, heard your voice, felt you holding me . . . knew
you were alive . . . I could almost believe those dreams were real, that they
were coming true. And maybe, just maybe, the nightmare was over. Oh God,
Angel . . ." Doyle broke down then, fell into Angel's arms.   Angel, holding
onto his own emotions with effort, held him gently as he finally allowed
himself to cry the tears he'd been holding back for over a year . . . tears
of rage and frustration and helplessness and pain and terror poured out of
him, cleansed him, helped him heal. He cried until he couldn't cry anymore,
until, finally, exhausted, he fell asleep in Angel's arms.
      Exhausted himself, Angel held him a few minutes more, eyes closed,
hearing Doyle's words again. He could feel the half-demon's sleeping breaths,
and, once again, could feel his heartbeat through his own quiet chest. Then
he gently laid his friend back down onto the pillow, and got back into his
chair. He leaned back in it with a weary sigh, to watch Doyle sleep...

******************************************************************************

      Angel had dozed off. Funny how much easier that was to do now that
Doyle was back and well. He was awakened by the sound of the door slowly
being opened. He opened his eyes to see Wesley stick his head into the room.
The Englishman's eyes took in the sleeping Doyle, and then went to Angel.
Angel smiled at him, waved him into the room. Wesley smiled back, entered the
room, and walked quietly to where Angel was sitting.
      "Hey, Wesley," Angel greeted him in a soft voice.
      "Yes, hello," Wesley responded, his eyes on Doyle. "I say, Angel, is
everything all right?"
      "Yeah, as far as I know," Angel said, frowning a little. "Why do youask?"
      "Well, I was sitting with Cordelia. She was sleeping. All of a sudden,
she started to cry, except . . ." Wesley stopped as if perplexed.      "Except?"
      "I don't know, really. It was rather like it was someone else crying,
and not her. I mean, it never disturbed her; she never woke up. The tears
just streamed down her face in a torrent, and I thought it just might have
something to do with Doyle." He paused. "So, here I am. I wanted to see if
you were all right."      "Xander's with Cordelia?"
      "Yes. Buffy and the others, they stopped by on their way out of town.
Xander decided to stay awhile longer." Wesley nodded at Doyle. "Is he all
right, Angel?"
      "Yeah, as all right as he can be, I guess. He's got a lot to deal with,
and he will. It'll just take time. But you're right. He was telling me some
things." Angel shook his head at the memory. "He finally let go, broke down
sobbing. He cried himself to sleep."
      "Well, that's difficult for him, but good. He needs the release. And it
won't be the last time, I'm sure."
      "I've no doubt of that. He's been through too much."
      "So," Wesley murmured. "She was crying Doyle's tears. Remarkable."
      Angel leaned forward in his chair, looking into Doyle's bruised and
battered face.   "He needs to see her, Wesley. He let it go earlier, but only
verbally, not in his head. I've reassured him about her all I can, but it's
not enough. He needs to hear it from her."
      "I agree." Wesley nodded. "But I think you need to be the one to tell
her that. You've been here with him. You know better than I do what he
thinks, how he feels."
      "And you're the one who's been with Cordelia." Angel looked up at
Wesley. "Is she ready?"
      "Are you joking, Angel? Yes, of course, absolutely. Whenever he is."
      "Okay then, they're both ready." Angel glanced at the clock. It was
late. "I'll see her in the morning. You'll stay with Doyle for me?"
      There was a noticeable hesitation on Wesley's part, before he said, "Of
course."      
      Angel smiled. "He won't bite you, Wesley. I promise."


      Doyle awoke the next morning to find himself, for the first time,
alone. The reasonable side of his mind told him that Angel would never leave
him alone. However, the irrational side of his brain, the side that still
lived with the fear that this was just a dream, that he was still trapped
with the Scourge, or that he was even dead, very much believed he was alone.
      "Angel?" His voice was still weak and rough, and he knew it hadn't
carried past the bedroom. He sat up slowly, his head swimming. He tried to
move to the side of the bed, but sudden, sharp pain stabbed through his
ribcage, and he lay back down with a moan, tears springing to his eyes.
      "Angel?" Panic made his voice louder.
      The person who, looking concerned, arrived in the doorway, wasn't
Angel. "Wesley?"      "Yes." Wesley moved into the room. "Are you all right?"
      "Yeah." Doyle sighed with relief. "I just . . . For a minute, I thought
. . ."      "You were alone. I'm so sorry, Doyle. You were sleeping so soundly.
Actually, I had just stepped out. I was making some tea. I'm sorry." Wesley
stopped at the foot of the bed.
      "No, it's all right, man. You're here." Doyle waved it away. "I guess I
panicked a little. Or a lot, actually." He gave Wesley a weak smile. "Where's
Angel?"
      "He had . . . an errand to run," Wesley replied, with an inward smile
as he thought about the 'errand.' "He asked me to, uh, 'mind the store'? in
his absence."      "And me too, I guess, then. Yeah?"
      "Well, yes," Wesley said, suddenly brisk. "Can I get you anything?"
      A stiff drink would be nice, Doyle thought, but said, "The tea would be
good, with maybe," as he winced, "a little bit of Willow's powder in it?"
      "Of course." Wesley turned to go.
      "But first . . ." Doyle called, and Wesley stopped, turned back to him,
his eyebrows raised questioningly. "Do you think we could . . . talk for a
minute?"
      "Of course," Wesley said again, sounding very unsure, and he would have
stood there, looking as uncomfortable as he sounded, had Doyle not gestured
toward Angel's chair.
      "Sit down?" The last thing Doyle wanted to do was to make Wesley
uncomfortable. He had a feeling this might not be so easy.
      "All right." Almost reluctantly, Wesley sat down in the indicated
chair. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to Doyle, he did. He had just
figured that Angel would be present for their first conversation, to make
introductions and all that. Also, he didn't want to make Doyle uncomfortable.
"So . . ."
      Doyle hadn't been uncomfortable, until now. He hesitated, then said,
"Nothing big, Wesley. And, you don't have to stay if you don't want. I just
don't do being alone very well right now, and I thought that since, you know,
we're going to be working together, that maybe we could talk, get to know
each other."
      Wesley was taken aback. As good-natured as Doyle had always been made
out to be--when he'd been talked about at all--Wesley was still not prepared
for the easy way he'd just been accepted by the half-demon. He hadn't been
sure if Doyle would even want him around, let alone work with him. "Yes, well
. . ." he stammered, and the look on his face, and in his eyes, made Doylefrown.
      "Hey, listen, Wesley, you're not thinking about leaving are you? I
mean, just because I'm back? I'm pretty sure Angel wouldn't go for that at
all, man. Come to think of it, I don't think I would either."
      Wesley stared at Doyle for a minute, again surprised by his generosity,
and embarrassed at how easily the half-demon had seen through him. The truth
was, he didn't want to leave, but he didn't want to be in the way either.
After all, it was Doyle who had been sent to Angel, to help him, to be his
guide, and, now that he was back, Wesley didn't want to interfere. "Well,
actually I . . ." He heard himself stammering again.
      Doyle interrupted him, almost ruthlessly, "Angel told me that it was
you who convinced him to believe in the vision that I was alive. He said that
he was afraid to believe it, that you made him believe it."
      "Yes. Well . . ." Embarrassed again, and overwhelmed by the intensity
of Doyle's gaze, Wesley looked away from the half-Brachen. "He would have
figured it out eventually."
      "Yes, I'm sure he would have. He's a pretty smart guy. Very smart,
actually," Doyle agreed. "But, uh, don't you think eventually might have been
just a little bit too late . . . for me anyway?"      "Possibly."
      "No, I'd say almost certainly. I mean, it wasn't as if there was a lot
of time. They were," Doyle paused, swallowed hard, "getting out the big guns.
My . . . execution was . . . imminent." Wesley looked at him then,
compassionately. Doyle looked up; their eyes met. There were tears in Doyle's
eyes as he continued, "I just want to say thank-you for making him see it."
He gave a knowing chuckle through his tears. "I know he's not easy to talk to
when he's . . . brooding. I also want to thank-you for saving my life, and
for everything you've done for Angel and Cordelia this past year."
      Again, Wesley was taken aback by this outpouring of emotion. He wasn't
sure what to say, so he resorted to plain good manners, although he meant
every word. "You're welcome, Doyle. It has been my pleasure."
      It was a little lame, but Doyle accepted it. He knew he had taken the
Englishman by surprise. He was thinking about what he had just said, about
how much time had passed, about what had happened in that time.
      "A whole year gone," he murmured. "You know, Wesley, when you come
right down to it, man, you've spent a lot more time with them then I ever
did. I mean, I was only with them a few months, you've been with them a whole
year. And you knew them before that, from Sunnydale." He paused. "So, I'm
thinking, if one of us should go, maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the one who's out
of place, who ought to do the leaving."
      Wesley was silent a moment, staring at Doyle, trying to decide if he
was at all serious, found no indication that he wasn't serious. That's when
Wesley had to laugh. He couldn't help himself. As he laughed, he shook hishead.
      Doyle, who had been, mostly, serious, was a little hurt by Wesley's
mirth. "What's so damn funny, man?"
      "You are, Doyle. You are." Wesley managed to contain himself with
effort, could see the wounded look on Doyle's face. He leaned forward in the
chair, looked directly at Doyle. "Do you honestly even begin to believe that
you ever really left them?  Oh, physically, yes, to be sure. You weren't
here, obviously. But, I'm not talking physically. Do you think you ever
really left them? In their hearts?  In their minds? Do you think a day went
by when they didn't think about you? That they didn't wish desperately that
you were here? Do you honestly think a day went by when they weren't lost
without you? Well, I'm here to tell you, emphatically, that the answer to all
of them is no, absolutely no! And so, my dear Doyle, if you've even begun to
think that you ever really left them, well, you'd better think again." He
paused a second, then said quietly, "And if they were to lose you again,
Doyle? Well, it would devastate them both."
      Silence, as the past and present and now future, regarded each other,
Wesley deadly serious, Doyle stunned and speechless by his tirade.
      "Well, then, man," Doyle said, when he could finally speak, and even
then his voice cracked, and his eyes once again filled with tears, "I guess
this means neither of us can go then, yeah?"
      Startled, Wesley looked up into Doyle's bruised and battered face. He
saw nothing but sincerity there, found himself agreeing with him, "Yes, I
suppose you are right."
      Doyle smiled then, a slight version of the mischievous grin that Wesley
had heard something about, and his blue eyes sparkled as he held out his hand
to the Englishman. "Thank-you, Wesley."
      Wesley got up then, took the offered hand; they shook. It was then that
Wesley suddenly and completely understood why Angel and Cordelia cared so
much for, and were so taken by, this young, Irish half-demon. His charm was
infectious and irresistible.      "No, Doyle," he said sincerely. "Thank-you."
      They both jumped, startled, and Wesley instinctively assumed a
defensive posture in front of Doyle, as Angel suddenly stuck his head into
the room.      "Hey!" Angel said loudly. "Is everything okay in here?"
      Both Doyle and Wesley had to catch their breath, and Wesley sighed with
relief before he said, "Oh, it's you. Yes, fine, until you had to scare us
half to death."
      "Sorry, but good, I'm glad to see no blood has been spilled here,"
Angel said, as Wesley and Doyle looked at each other at his statement. Angel
started to walk into the room, only to be pulled back by Xander. "What?"
      "Did my eyes deceive me?" Xander asked. "Or did we just see those two
shaking hands?"
      "Well, I saw it too." Angel smiled at Xander. "So, I guess your eyes
are okay. Yes, they were shaking hands. That's a good thing, you know."
      "Yeah, I guess it beats them being at each other's throats, although
that might be more interesting," Xander said, with a grin. "Could be kind of
hard to live with, though."
      "And it may happen yet. You never know," Angel told him, shrugged a
little. "They're pretty different."
      "Ah, but that's the spice of life. Call me if it does happen, though.
That I gotta see," Xander quipped.
      "Come on." Shaking his head, Angel led Xander into the room. "So, guys,
everything really is okay in here, huh?"
      "Fine," Wesley said again, and Doyle nodded. "Why wouldn't it be?"
      It was on the tip of Angel's tongue to remind Wesley of his initial
reticence to even stay with Doyle, but he thought better of it. "No, nothing.
No reason. I mean it's great that everything's fine." Then, unable to help
himself, he grinned at Wesley. "I told you he wouldn't bite."
      "What?" Doyle looked at Wesley.
      "Never mind, Doyle. He's just being insolent." Wesley shook his head.
"I'll go get your tea." He started out, then stopped, and addressed Angel, "I
trust you completed . . . your errand?"
      "Yes, I did," Angel answered, and Wesley left the room, smiling tohimself.
      Doyle, clueless, naturally assumed that the 'errand' was business, a
case for the agency. "It went well, then?"      "What?"
      "Your errand. It went well? A good job for the agency? A vision from
Cordelia?"      Both Angel and Xander almost choked.
      "Not exactly," Angel managed to say. "But it went well. As well as it
could I guess..."

******************************************************************************

      He'd walked into Cordelia's apartment. Dennis had let him in. Cordelia
had been sitting on the couch, wide-awake, looking bored, which she probably
was. Xander, eating as usual, was sitting in a chair, watching TV. He'd sat
up, however, turned down the TV's sound, and watched with interest, as Angel
had come into the room. Cordelia's eyes had lit up when she saw him. She'd
made room for him on the couch, patted the seat beside her. He'd sat down,
and had taken a good look at her. She'd looked, well, great. Doyle's recovery
had done wonders for her. She'd appeared rested and ready to burst with pent
up energy. Her eyes had searched his, as she waited eagerly, impatiently, for
what he had to say.
      He'd felt self-conscious. "Cordelia, I um, think it's time that you and
Doyle . . ."
      "Yes!" Cordelia had broken in, squealing. "How is he? Is he doing
better? I haven't been getting much from him lately, so I guess he must be.
And you wouldn't be here if he weren't, would you? And I wouldn't be better
either, would I?" She had been babbling with excitement."Cordelia . . ."
      She'd gone on as if he hadn't spoken. "Has he asked about me? Well, of
course he has! Is he dying to see me? Well, of course he is, why am I asking?
Oh my God!" She'd gotten up then, had almost danced around the room. Angel
had watched her, had felt mind-boggled; he had known she would be happy about
seeing Doyle, but he hadn't expected . . . this.
      "Well, I can't keep him waiting." She'd pulled Xander, then Angel to
their respective feet, had shoved them toward the door. "You two, out of
here. Now! I've got lots to do."
      "But, I thought you said you couldn't keep him waiting," Angel had
protested.
      Cordelia had been on her way to the bedroom. At his statement, she'd
turned to Angel, hands on her hips, eyes flashing. She'd looked like the old
Cordelia, the Cordelia who had existed before they'd lost Doyle. It was good
to see, and, at the same time, terrifying. "Angel. I couldn't possibly see
him looking like this. I mean, hello?"  She'd then indicated her non-made up
face, disheveled hair, and mismatched clothes.
      "But . . ." Angel had begun to say something about the fact that she
looked just fine, that Doyle just wanted to see her, needed to see her,
needed to hear from her that she still cared; he didn't care about all that
superficial stuff.  His protest had been cut off when he'd felt a hand clamp
down on his arm, and he had looked up into Xander's amused face.
      "Angel, buddy," Xander had grinned at him. "Don't waste your breath, or
your time, 'cause it ain't happening anyway but her way. You should knowthat."
      "Yeah, but Doyle . . ." Angel had trailed off as Cordelia had walked
into her bedroom, discussing with herself what she was going to wear.
      "I know. But Angel, look," and Xander had actually put an arm around
his shoulders, "seeing her is going to make Doyle happy, we hope. Right?"
      "Right."
      "And letting Cordelia get all fussied and fancied up, letting her do
this her way, no matter how long it may take, is going to make her happy,right?"
      "Right."
      "So! What could be better than two happy people, right? Sure, Doyle's
happiness may come one, two, four . . . more hours later than you'd intended
it to, but, eventually, he will be happy, right?" Xander had looked at Angel
pleadingly. "But what we really don't want, Angel, is for Cordy to be
unhappy, right?"
      "Right," Angel had agreed, because, God knew, you didn't want Cordelia
Chase unhappy.
      "Are you guys still here?" Cordelia had yelled from the bedroom. "How
am I going to get anything done? Get out!"
      Angel had found himself letting Xander pull him toward the door. "Are
you okay to drive, Cordelia?"
      "Of course! Now out!" Then as Xander had opened the front door,
Cordelia had come to the bedroom door, smiling broadly. "And don't tell him
I'm coming, okay? I want it to be a big surprise! I want to make a grand
entrance, so set him up somewhere so I can do that." She'd then flitted back
into the bedroom.
      "Big surprise. Grand entrance. Oh, Doyle," Angel had muttered. He'd
felt like he'd just been nuked.
      Xander had cracked up. "Are you sure Doyle's going to be up to this,
man?" He'd howled with laughter as Angel had shook his head. "Poor guy. He's
not going to know what hit him. God help him. Let's go." Still laughing, he'd
pulled the dazed Angel out of the apartment and had closed the door...

******************************************************************************

      "Yeah," Angel said now. "As successful as it could be."
      "Good," Doyle said, although he was confused.
      "Absolutely. I'm sure it was real successful." Xander glanced at Angel,
then walked to Doyle. "Doyle, I'm on my way back to Sunnydale, but I, uh,
wanted to stop by and tell you . . . Gosh, you look better. That's so great.
It's really great."
      "Thanks, Xander," Doyle said, confused but amused. "Thanks for all your
help. I guess Cordelia must be doing better, if you're leaving." So why
wasn't she with them?
      "Yeah, she's better. She's quite a trooper. Yeah." Xander smiled at
Doyle then, a big, goofy, yet knowing, smile. "Good luck to you then, Doyle,"
he said, with an exaggerated Irish accent. "You just might need it." He
stepped back, waved at both Doyle and Angel. "See ya." Afraid he just might
laugh, or give away Cordelia's big surprise, he was then out the door in aflash.
      Doyle looked up at Angel. "You want to tell me what that was all about,
then?"
      "No," Angel said, then quickly at Doyle's look, "I mean, I don't know.
It's just Xander, being Xander."
      Doyle didn't know Xander well enough to judge. "Okay," he said, then,
"Listen, Angel . . ."
      "Yeah?" Angel braced himself for questions about Cordelia, was
pleasantly surprised when Doyle said, "I just want to thank-you for, you
know, for last night. For being there, for listening to me. I, uh . . ."
Doyle paused, swallowed. "I didn't mean to lose it quite so badly."
      Cordelia was forgotten for the moment. Angel walked to Doyle's bedside,
sat down beside him. "You didn't lose it, Doyle. You released pent up
emotions, tensions that needed to come out. It's okay. It's healthy. It's
something we vampire's with a soul don't always do very well. And you don't
need to thank me. It's what I'm here for . . . to listen, to talk, to not
talk, to just sit with you. Whatever you need to get you through this. I'm
your friend, Doyle. That's what friends do. So, you lose it all you want.
I'll be here."      "Thanks, Angel," Doyle said softly.
      They both looked up, and Angel stood up, as Wesley came in with the
tea. "Here's your tea, Doyle. Now, where's that powder?"
      "Wait." Angel, thinking of a certain 'grand entrance', suddenly had an
idea, stopped Wesley from putting the tea things down on the table. "Why
don't we set that up in the living room?" He turned to Doyle. "Let's get you
up and out of here. How about a change of scenery? This room's got to be
getting old and boring. What do you say?"
      "Sure," Doyle said, looking at Angel as if he might be a little bit
crazy. He'd never seen him quite this animated. Or maybe there was something
Angel just didn't want to tell him. Could it be something about Cordelia?
Like maybe she didn't want to see him? Maybe she wasn't coming?  Even though
it was only conjecture, he felt his heart drop, but tried not to show his
disappointment. It would be good to get out of this room, though. "Why not?"
      Angel was too busy working on his plan to notice Doyle's slight change
in demeanor. "Great." He grabbed two pillows and a blanket off the bed, went
to the living room, and began setting up the couch, arranging it so that
Doyle could easily see both the staircase and the elevator, either of which
Cordelia could use to make her entrance.
      Wesley joined him in the living room, set the tea down on the table,
and put a spoonful of Willow's powder into Doyle's cup. He stirred the powder
into the hot liquid as he watched Angel arrange things. "Are you quite all
right, Angel?"
      "Does it show that much?" Angel asked, as he pulled the TV in front of
the couch, then stepped back to inspect his handiwork.
      "Hopefully only to me, but Doyle knows you quite well too."
      "What can I say?" Angel actually managed to look sheepish, shrugged
helplessly. "Cordelia wants to make an 'entrance'."
      Wesley chuckled. "That sounds like our Cordelia." He nodded toward the
bedroom, then echoed Xander's words, "Do you think he's up to this, Angel?"
      "I don't know, but it was her way, or some painful highway." Angel
straightened from arranging the pillows . . . for the third time. Wesley
smiled to himself, seeing again how much Angel really cared about that Irish
half-demon. "By the way Wesley, I'm glad that you and Doyle talked, and that
it went well. I was a little worried about that."
      "So was I, as you know. I'm pleased, as well."
      Angel nodded, eyed the couch one last time. "Okay, this is ready. Come
on, let's get him. She'll be here soon."
      "You really think so, do you?" Despite his reservations, Wesley
followed Angel into the bedroom anyway.
      Together, they stood Doyle, supported him on either side. His head swam
alarmingly at first, but settled down once he'd stood there a minute or two.
He was weak and very sore; the going was slow and rather painful, but they
made it to the couch, and then gently eased Doyle down onto it. He was
grateful to be there, sighed with relief as he settled back against the
pillows. Angel nodded to himself. The 'stage' was set.

******************************************************************************

      An hour and a half passed. Doyle drank his tea, watched some TV, read a
little, tried not to think about Cordelia, but was soon tired. He thought
that going back to bed might be a good idea. Wesley had gone out to run some
errands, and Angel had gone upstairs to answer the office phone, so Doyle was
alone.      He looked into the bedroom, trying to gauge how far it was from the
couch to the bed. Funny how what should be a quick walk across the room,
could suddenly turn into a long, difficult journey.
      Still, it wasn't that far, and he'd had some of Willow's tea. He hated
to bother Angel, who was probably trying to take care of some business that
had been neglected because of him. Surely he could make it.
      He took a deep, somewhat painful, breath, then stood slowly and
carefully on weak, shaky legs. Again, his head swam alarmingly, but he closed
his eyes, held onto the couch, and the dizziness went, mostly, away after a
few seconds. He opened his eyes, and, clinging to furniture, made his slow,
painful way toward the bedroom . . .
      Halfway there, he was suddenly hit by that same agonizing pain that
stabbed through his ribcage. The pain took his breath away. He gasped,
doubled over from the pain, and, as he clung desperately to the furniture
around him, he felt himself morph, uncontrollably, into his Brachen demon
form. The 'extra strength' didn't help him. The pain didn't diminish, in
fact, got worse, and he knew that, in a minute, he'd be helplessly down on
his knees...

******************************************************************************

      Cordelia Chase stood in Angel's office, eagerly, but tensely, awaiting
his reply. It had been her call he'd left Doyle to answer. She'd called him
as she drove, asked him to meet her upstairs. He'd done so, and she now stood
in his office, waiting, watching, as he remained silent . . . silent until
she couldn't stand it another minute. "So, what do you think? Will I do?"
      Angel's silence had nothing to do with how he thought she looked, but
had everything to do with the emotions her obviously painstaking efforts
invoked. She had gone above and beyond to make herself beautiful . . . for
Doyle. It was not for herself; there was no real vanity here; her
nervousness, her self-consciousness, and, above all, her desire for his
approval, told him that.  She was beautiful. She wore a pink floral dress
that was, for her, demure. Her makeup was flawless, and her hair looked
professionally done. All this for Doyle. "Yes, Cordelia. You'll more than do.
You're beautiful."
      She flushed a shade of pink that matched her dress. The sudden,
natural, color that stained her cheeks made her even more beautiful. "You
really think so?"      "Yes, I do."
      "And Doyle?" Her voice shook on his name. "Do you think he will, too?"
      "Cordelia, considering that Doyle would think you were beautiful
wearing a potato sack, no make-up, and with wet stringy hair . . . I think
you're safe."
      Cordelia laughed nervously. She swore her heart was beating a million
times a minute, and, at times, that her breath was threatening to choke her.
"God, I am so nervous. Can you believe I'm this nervous? Whoever would have
thought that I would be this excited to see Doyle? Not me, but I am. Oh,
Angel, I've got to calm down. I can't make my entrance if I can't calm down.
And I want him to get the full effect, you know? Where did you put him by the
way? So, you know, he can get the full effect?"
      Well, there's some vanity there, Angel thought. But then, Cordelia
wouldn't be Cordelia without it. "On the couch."
      "Good. That's a good spot. A great spot, actually. He'll definitely get
the full effect from there," Cordelia told Angel, then, "well, I guess I'm
ready. Wish me luck." She started out of the room.
      Angel hesitated. He had been trying to decide ever since she'd arrived,
whether to say something or not. On the one hand, what happened between
Cordelia and Doyle was, well, between Cordelia and Doyle. On the other hand,
Cordelia could be quite overzealous at times, and, considering Doyle's rather
delicate state, she could easily overwhelm him. "Cordelia . . ."
      She stopped in mid-exit, turned to face him. "What?"
      She looked at him like he was about to impart some really great words
of encouragement and wisdom on her, and he felt guilty. "Never mind. Just go
on and see him. It's okay."
      "No, Angel, if you have something to say, just say it." She paused,
took a couple of steps toward him. "This is Doyle we're talking about, and
nobody's closer to him than you are, not even me, and I've been feeling a lot
of his feelings for the past year. So just tell me."
      "It's just . . . I know you're excited about seeing him, and I know he
wants to see you, too, but," Angel paused, then went on, "just be careful
with him, okay? I mean, you can be pretty overwhelming at times, and he's
pretty fragile right now, pretty unsettled. He's weak. He's hurt. He's . . .
been through a lot, which I know you know. He's just got a lot to deal with,
and when it comes to you, Cordelia, he's scared to death. He's scared about
the visions, the half-demon thing, and all the pain he feels he's caused you.
He's scared about a lot of things. He doesn't know what you think, or how you
feel. He just doesn't know what to expect from you, at all. I've tried to
tell him that everything's okay, but he's got to hear it from you."
      Cordelia then walked to stand before him. She smiled warmly at him, and
Angel knew that she understood how he felt, understood that he cared about
Doyle a lot, and didn't want him hurt.  He also knew that she cared a lot
about Doyle too, as she said, "Don't worry, Angel. I won't hurt him, and I
promise I'll try not to overwhelm him. And in about five minutes, he'll know
exactly what he can expect from me."  She leaned up, kissed Angel gently on
the cheek. "Now, wish me luck."
      "Good-luck, Cordelia," he humored her, because he knew she wouldn't
need it.  Doyle was hers. All she had to do was tell him so.

******************************************************************************

      Cordelia walked out of the office, to the top of the stairs, stopped a
second, as a strange sense of unease flowed through her. She shook her head
resolutely, passed the feeling off as nerves. She smoothed the dress, checked
her hair as best she could without a mirror, then took a deep breath. It was
time . . . time to make the entrance of her life.
      She took another deep breath, then started her descent. As she reached
the landing, looked into the living room, she noticed that the couch, where
Angel had said Doyle would be, was vacant, blankets and pillows all askew.
Irritated, 'My grand entrance ruined', she turned to look up the stairs,
intent on giving the poor, innocent vampire a severe what for, when she
suddenly felt pain that wasn't hers, and, at the same time, heard a low
agonized moan. The moan came from below her, in the living room, but beyond
her range of vision. She turned, and slowly, cautiously, went down a few
steps, until she could see the whole living room. What she saw then, made her
totally forget her irritation, the way she looked, and her 'grand entrance'.
      Doyle, her Doyle, in full demon mode, was near the bedroom door, down
on his knees, doubled over with pain. His eyes were closed, and he was
moaning in agony.
      "Doyle! Oh my God. Doyle!" Cordelia cried, sprinting down the remaining
stairs. She rushed to his side, fell to her knees beside him, gently put her
arms around him, and supported him. She almost cried out herself when she
touched him, for it was then that she completely felt the intense pain he was
feeling. She wondered why she hadn't felt it more acutely before, then
realized that the intensity of her own feelings, her own increased
nervousness and anxiety had probably eclipsed it.


      Doyle had opened his eyes, shocked by the sound of her voice. He had
not been expecting her, and thus was flooded with mixed emotions at her
sudden appearance.  Although part of him rejoiced, was relieved at her
presence, since he hadn't known when or if she was coming, and was grateful
for her help, another part of him was mortified, terrified, wanted to hide.
Here they were, consciously face to face for the first time since that
fateful night on the Quintessa, and here he was in full demon form. It
figured, and he guessed that Angel's bold statement about how 'she doesn't
care about that', was about to be put to the test.
      "Cordelia . . ." he said it on a pain-wracked sob, honestly not sure,
despite all, whether he wanted her to stay or go.
      Cordelia was going nowhere. Mentally gritting her teeth against Doyle's
pain, she said softly, gently, "It's okay, Doyle, it's okay. I've got you.
Where do you want to go?"
      "I was . . . to the bedroom, please." Every word was taxing. "God, I
thought . . . I could do it. I thought I could . . . make it."
      "It's all right," Cordelia whispered soothingly. "It's all right. We'll
get you there. Just hang on. Come on now, let's get you up."
      With effort, she helped him to his feet. Moving was excruciating, and,
for a second, Doyle thought he might pass out. He cried out, clutched onto
her; she took his weight, held him up until he could help a little.
      "Sorry," he said it through clenched teeth.
      "It's okay, Doyle. Just give yourself a minute. I've got you."
      At last, he felt like he could move. He couldn't wait to get to the
bedroom, couldn't wait to get to the bed and lie down, because once he did
that and the pain had abated some, he could shake off his cursed demon face.
They started for the bedroom, Doyle still doubled over from the pain, leaning
heavily on Cordelia. Cordelia supported him, gently but firmly.
      "God, this hurts," he said in a broken voice.
      "I know. I know it does," Cordelia whispered.
Doyle stopped, literally then, with sudden awareness, as he realized that she
meant exactly what she said. She knew it hurt, because she felt it, too. His
own pain and even his demon face were forgotten for a moment, as he looked up
at her, gazed into her eyes with his fire engine red ones. "Oh, Princess, I'm
so sorry. For the pain. For the visions. For everything. Forgive me, please.
I hope you know I didn't mean to give them to you. I didn't know that I had.
I never would have . . ."
      "I know, Doyle. I know. You don't need to apologize. You didn't do
anything wrong." She smiled at him. "Actually, I'm glad I have them."
      "You . . . what?"
      "Well, yeah, I'm glad. I mean, yeah, no doubt, they're a pain, in more
ways than one, but," her smile faded as her eyes filled with tears, "if I
didn't have them, we wouldn't be standing here right now. We might never have
known that you were alive, and the good old Scourge probably would have
overrun the earth, so, see, it's a good thing. Now, come on, let's get you to
bed."      "Okay." Doyle couldn't believe it. She didn't blame him for, wasn't
angry with him about, the visions. One thing down.
      They made it the rest of the way in silence. It took all Doyle's
concentration and willpower to keep going, but finally they reached the bed.
Doyle sank down onto it with a grateful, relieved sigh. Cordelia then gently
helped him ease his weak, sore, battered body into a lying position. His head
came to rest onto the pillow, and he thought that nothing had ever felt sogood.
      "Thank-you," he breathed, closing his eyes.
      "You're welcome," Cordelia said as she sat down beside him, watched as
he tried to relax, to let the pain leave him. Her pain was gone, had left the
minute she'd stopped touching him.
      It was a slower process for Doyle, but, gradually, the pain began to
ease more and more, until finally it eased enough so that he knew he could
once again control his demon form, could shake it off. However, when he
started to do just that, he found his green, spiky face held gently between
Cordelia's soft, cool hands, stopping him.
      "No, don't," she said softly. "Don't shake it off."
      Shocked, he opened his eyes, looked directly into hers, her face
hovering just above his. He swallowed hard, but his voice still trembled as
he asked, "What?" He had to swallow again; it still didn't help the
trembling. "Cordelia, what are you doing?"
      "I don't want you to shake it off," she said, firmly holding his face
in her hands, her eyes probing his red ones.
      "Why?" he asked, and still didn't get an answer. He had never been so
acutely uncomfortable regarding his demon half before--and that was saying a
lot, considering that he'd always been uncomfortable with it. He was close to
panic. "Cordelia, please . . ."
      Cordelia sensed his mounting panic. More than that, she actually felt
his panic, but she didn't let him go. She silently continued to gaze down
into his Brachen face, studying it intently, as if she were trying to
memorize its every facet, its every line.
      Doyle endured her silence, her scrutiny, until, at last, he couldn't
take it anymore. He also couldn't understand why she was doing this.
"Cordelia, please. Let me . . ."
      "Do you remember what you said to me that night on the Quintessa?" she
asked suddenly, sending his already spinning mind reeling. She guessed she
was overwhelming him, after all. Sorry Angel.
      "What?" Doyle wasn't sure he could take this much longer. "Cordelia. .. ."
      Again, she stopped him. "Do you remember what you said to me that night
on the Quintessa? You know, right before you . . . jumped?" Her eyes never
left his as she said this; her voice shook on the word 'jumped'. "Do you
remember?"
      Looking into her eyes with his demon ones, he had to wonder if she
really believed that he would ever, could ever have forgotten those words.
His, "of course," was almost inaudible, trembled badly.
      "I want you to say it again for me now," she told him, and his eyes
widened, almost in horror.
      "You . . . what?! Cordelia, why?" Doyle's tone was desperate. He was,
quite literally, terrified.
      "Just do it, Doyle! Say those words again for me now. Right now.
Please, Doyle." Her demand turned to plea, and Doyle found them both hard to
deal with, hard to refuse.
      Still, he hesitated, and for more than one reason. First, he didn't
quite understand why she was doing any of this, let alone why she wanted to
hear those words. Second, and more importantly, he was afraid. He was
downright scared, in fact. When he'd spoken those fifteen words just over a
year ago, he'd been certain that he would never get a response to them. He'd
been about to die, as far as he knew, never to see her again, and that pretty
much negated the worry of a response . . . of acceptance or . . . rejection.
But now, if he said those words to her now, he knew he would get a response,
good, bad, or indifferent, and that, to be blunt, terrified the hell out ofhim.
      He tried once more to get out of it. "Cordelia, please . . ."
      She sensed his fear, felt his fear, knew he was afraid, sympathized
with him, but she couldn't let him get out of it. "Come on, Doyle, say it.
We'll stay here all day until you do."
      He believed her, knew she wouldn't let him go until he did what she
asked. He had no choice.
      "Okay," he said, closed his eyes. Please, Cordelia, don't hurt me.
You've got me here. I'm as vulnerable as I've ever been. Don't like it much,
but here it is. You can really hurt me. Please don't.
      He took a deep breath, opened his eyes to look straight into hers. She
raised her eyebrows impatiently, waiting.
      And so, in a soft voice that trembled badly, he repeated those fifteen
words. "Too bad we'll never know, if this is a face you could learn to love."
      Holding his breath, he watched as Cordelia closed her eyes, as she let
out a huge sigh. Her entire body relaxed as if a huge weight had been lifted
from her. Then she opened her tear-filled eyes, looked into his anxious ones,
and Doyle caught his breath at what he saw there . . . caring, compassion,
tenderness and . . .
      And then she blew him away, as she said softly, "I could learn to love
anything about you, Alan . . . Francis . . . Doyle."
      With each word of his name, she'd lowered her face closer and closer
and closer to his, until, incredibly, her lips met his in a gentle, loving,
unbelievable kiss, that sent his pulse racing, left him breathless. She
kissed him for a long time, before, breathless herself, she gently pulled
away. Then she smiled at him, a smile so full of tenderness and, yes, love,
it took his breath away.      "Anything at all," she finished softly.
      She released him then, but it took him a full minute to realize it, he
was so caught up in what had just happened between them. Then he shook his
head slightly. Brachen face changed back to human, fiery eyes turned to
tear-filled blue, met hers in an intense, passionate, loving gaze.
      "You really mean that, don't you?" he asked, breathlessly. Two things
down. Done.      Her smile widened as she nodded, said again, "Anything at all."
      He pulled her to him then, wincing slightly as her body pressed against
his sore, broken ribs. Their lips met in a passionate, yet tender, kiss that
lasted several minutes; a kiss that they both wished could go on forever. But
Doyle was exhausted, and Cordelia sensed his exhaustion. So it was she who
gently, reluctantly pulled away, aware that he needed to rest; also aware
that there would be plenty of time for other things.
      She eased her body away from his, to the other side of the bed, and
pulled a light blanket up over him. She looked lovingly into his face--he was
already half-asleep. She smiled, leaned down, gently kissed his cheek.
      "Rest," she said softly, started to turn away.
      "By the way," his sudden voice, a little slurry with sleepiness, the
beloved Irish lilt fully pronounced, startled her; she turned back to him as
he said, "You look beautiful, Cordelia."
      He opened his eyes then, smiled at her, a sleepy, but tender, smile,
which melted her heart.
      "Oh, Doyle!" she cried joyously, and hugged him, almost desperately.
      Who, but Doyle, with all he'd just been through, and as exhausted as he
was, would even notice what she looked like, let alone think to say it? It
was like the shoes. He'd noticed the shoes. He'd noticed a lot of things,
done a lot of things. So many wonderful things. He'd been telling her he
loved her long before he'd taken that leap that had saved her life. And what
had she done?  She'd fought her feelings for him. And why? She could think of
no good reason now. She was so lucky, for she had a second chance with him. A
second chance that she didn't intend to waste.
      "Hey, Princess, I'm glad you're happy, but do you think you could not
crush me, here?" Doyle said in a muffled voice.
      She pulled away from him. "Oh, Doyle, I'm sorry."
      "It's okay. I kind of liked it." He smiled at her, but was having a
great deal of trouble keeping his eyes open.
      She smiled back, touched his cheek. "Go to sleep."
      She moved to get up off the bed then, to let him rest, but Doyle
reached out, caught her arm in a gentle grip. She turned to look at him, into
those gorgeous blue eyes that were still half-asleep, but were alsohalf-awake.
      "Don't go," he said softly. As he spoke, he drew her back down to lay
beside him; his hand gently slid down her arm until it found hers. Their
fingers interlaced, and he laid his hand, with hers, to rest lightly on his
chest. "Don't go, Princess. Stay with me awhile." He said it sleepily, but
clearly. "Don't ever let me go, okay?  Stay with me . . ."
      His voice lost power on the last three words, and he was asleep.
      Cordelia swallowed the lump in her throat, her eyes filled with fresh
tears. Tears of joy.      "Forever, Doyle," she whispered to him. "Forever."
      She lay there for a while, looking into his face, his beautiful face,
now relaxed and free of pain in sleep. It was still marred by the signs of
his ordeal--cuts, bruises, abrasions--but they were fading, healing. As Angel
had done before her, she watched and listened to him breath, felt his
heartbeat through the palm of her hand. He was back. He was hers. He was alive
. And she would never ever let him go again. With a sigh of deep contentment,
Cordelia Chase snuggled a little closer to her Doyle, and, with her head on
his shoulder, she closed her eyes, and fell asleep beside him.


Epilogue


      "Are you sure about this, man?" Doyle asked, high anxiety in his voice.
"Are you really sure this is what we ought to be doing?"
      They stood in the Oracles' 'waiting room', underneath the post office.
Angel stood near the center of the room; the still weak and sore Doyle leaned
against the wall for support. Angel watched Doyle with some amusement, for
only weakness and pain prevented him from taking his nervous energy out on
the floor. Had he been able to pace, he would have dug a deep trench by now.
      "Yes, Doyle. I'm sure," Angel told him, trying hard not to smile.
      "You don't think we're asking for trouble, then?" Doyle asked,
relentless. "I mean, why ask for trouble? Can't we just leave it as it is,man?"
      "I can't, no. I need answers," Angel said firmly. "And so do you. Admit
it. You're not comfortable with the way it is."
      "Okay." Silence for a minute. Angel waited, then smiled as Doyle said,
"You know, man, they probably won't let me in anyway. I mean, I'm not a
warrior. And before, when I was just the messenger, I never got in. And now
I'm not even that."
      Angel ignored the put down Doyle had just handed himself. "They'll let
you in, Doyle."
      Doyle threw Angel an And that's supposed to be a good thing? look, then
said,   "Okay, so what kind of offering did we bring them?"
      "Nothing. We didn't bring them anything."      "Nothing?"
      "Nothing," Angel repeated, then raised his voice to almost a yell, "
This time, they owe us!"
      No door opened; there was no brilliant flash of light, but Angel
suddenly felt a tingling sensation, which, he knew, could only be some sort
of transportation signal from the Oracles.  He leapt the distance between
himself and Doyle, grabbed Doyle's arm, knowing that the half-demon wouldn't
be prepared for the sudden trip.
      An instant later, they found themselves in the Oracles' audience room.
It was empty, save one solitary chair that Angel knew had not been there
before. As he helped Doyle ease his weak, sore, battered body down onto it,
he had to wonder if it had been placed there solely for the half-Brachen's
benefit. If so, maybe there was some hope for the Oracles after all.
      He was about to find out. After nodding at Doyle's, "Thanks, man," he
turned to find the Oracles, male and female, watching them, the male with his
usual self-righteousness, the female with perhaps a little less intolerance.
      Doyle had seen them too. "Oh, man. Here we go."
      The male Oracle addressed Angel, "Back again, Warrior?"
      "Again?" Angel asked. "It's been over a year."
      "A year," the female Oracle sighed. "A significant length of time to
you. Nothing to us."      Angel shrugged at that. "Sorry about your luck."
      "You have a question, Warrior?" The male Oracle wanted to know.
      Down to business. "Yeah, I do," Angel said firmly, looked directly at
the pair. "The last time I was here, the day after he," he gestured at Doyle,
"died . . . I asked you to turn back time, so that I could change things, so
I could keep us from losing him. You said you couldn't. You said that what
was done couldn't be undone. You said that he was dead." He turned, looked at
Doyle, who looked downright scared. Angel turned back to the Oracles, a
little nervous himself. They had taken a significant risk in coming here.
"Well, he's not dead, but for the past year he has been suffering through
hell on earth. Now, I know a year is nothing to you, but I guarantee you it
was pretty much an eternity for him. And so my question is this . . . Why did
you tell me he was dead? Why did you lie?"
      Silence, utter silence, followed Angel's question. Angel prepared
himself for thunder and lightning bolts, but stood his ground, as the male
Oracle drew himself up to his full height, which was still several inches
shorter than Angel.
      "We did not lie, Vampire," the Oracle all but spat it out at him. "We
do not lie. At the time you came to us, your friend was dead."
      Speechless, Angel stared at him, heard Doyle's sharp intake of breath.
He unconsciously, reflexively, moved to stand protectively beside the
half-demon, looked toward him. Doyle's face was full of uncertainty and fear,
but he also gave the vampire a look that said clearly two things: Number one,
he had no idea what the Oracle was talking about, and, number two, they should
 have left well enough alone.
      Angel still didn't agree with number two. He turned back to the
Oracles. "But he's not."      "No," the female Oracle agreed. "He is not."
      Angel sighed, looked again at Doyle, who shrugged helplessly. Feeling
suddenly weary, Angel returned his attention to the Oracles.
      "Okay," he said heavily. "You're gonna have to treat me like the
imbecile I guess I am, and give it me slow, simple and straight."
      The male Oracle shook his head, heaved a deep sigh. "You planet bound
beings are so limited in your perceptions, but I would have thought that you,
Warrior, being an immortal, would have a better understanding of it all."
      "Humor me," Angel said.
      The male Oracle studied him a moment, then continued, "As you well
know, life is not constant. Nor, as you have experienced yourself, is death.
Time itself is not constant. It is forever changing, as it ebbs and flows
through and over currents and lines. And for every outcome of every given
situation, there are always . . . alternatives."
      Silence, as Angel and Doyle thought about that, let it sink in.
      "Okay," Angel finally said, with a quick glance at Doyle. The
half-demon's gaze was riveted on the Oracles. "So, what you're saying is that
even though you said you couldn't, you did alter time. You altered time, and
gave the Quintessa 'situation' an alternative outcome."
      The Oracle actually hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Simply put,
but yes."
      "I guess you couldn't have maybe given me just a slightly less painful
outcome then, huh?" Doyle asked from his chair.
      The male Oracle looked directly at the half-demon for the first time."No."
      "Why not?" Then it dawned on Doyle. "Because of the Scourge?"
      "They needed to be stopped, yes."
      "But . . ." Both Angel and Doyle said it at the same time; both were
silenced by a look from the male Oracle. They were forced, albeit
reluctantly, to let it go.
      "All right," Angel said, determined to get an answer to the next
question. "So, even though you said you couldn't, you did alter time." He
felt compelled to keep driving that point home to them. "Why?"
      The male Oracle looked to his female counterpart, who answered him, "We
watched you; we have been watching you, Warrior. We have observed both your
present path, and . . . your future one. Without him," she nodded at Doyle,
"you were no longer functioning optimally. You were, in fact, functioning
erratically, carelessly, sometimes even dangerously. As you said when you
were last here, you need him. The girl who works with you needs him. Thus,
this world needs him. And so, he is now where he is supposed to be."
      Both Angel and Doyle heaved deep sighs of relief, as she hesitated a
minute, seemed to consider whether she should continue or not, then made up
her mind, looked directly at Angel. "Your path, without him, Warrior, would
have led, ultimately, to your    own self-destruction."
      Silence followed, as Angel, who was overwhelmed, but not really
surprised by her statement, turned to look at Doyle. Their eyes met; they
were both filled with emotion, but both knew that this was neither the time
nor the place to talk about what had just been said, and all that had been
said. It was all better left to when they were alone.
      It was Doyle who broke the silence, tearing his attention away from
Angel with a question of his own. "And, um, speaking of the girl," he said
nervously, "if, um, I'm 'back where I belong,' or whatever, do I get the
visions back as well, then?"
      "You desire them back?" the female Oracle asked, appeared surprised,
which seemed unusual for an Oracle to the Powers that Be. "You do realize, do
you not, that although you have been recalled to both aid and guide this
warrior," she nodded at Angel, "your own atonement does remain complete. You
are no longer required to endure the visions."
      "But somebody has to, right?"
      The female answered with a gentle incline of her head.
      "Then bring em' on."
      "Doyle, she said your atonement is complete," Angel protested.
      "Yeah, she did." Doyle nodded, looked at Angel. "And that's good to
know. It is, even though I'll probably blow it. You know me. I don't guess
I've changed that much. But it doesn't really change anything, Angel.
Somebody has to have the head-splitting things; they're the link to the
Powers. I've been 'called back' to help you. The visions are one way that I
can do that. Besides, I started out with them, man. I might as well go on
with them, too."
      "So, you do desire them back?" the female Oracle asked again.
      "Well, now, desire's a strong word, isn't it?" Doyle told her, raising
his eyebrows in his own Doyle way. "Let's just say that if it's between
Cordelia and me, if one of us has to have the brain-numbing things, I'd
rather it was me, and not her."
      "Another selfless act," the female Oracle murmured, then said, "Yes,
Messenger, you may . . ." She stopped, looked at Doyle intently for a moment.
"You already possess them."
      "What? How can that be? I . . ." Doyle cut himself off, grinned, shook
his head.      "What?" Angel asked.
      "She kissed me," Doyle replied. "She kissed me . . ." He stopped again,
looked alarmed, as a sudden thought struck him. "Hey! Wait a minute! I was
kind of planning on doing some more of that." He looked at the female Oracle,
a little desperately. "We're not gonna keep passing those damn things back
and forth now, are we?"
      Angel swore the female Oracle suppressed a smile. "No, Messenger. They
are yours."
      "Oh. Okay. Good." Doyle was relieved. "And what about that connection
thing between us?"      "It is no longer needed, and is gone."
      "Oh." This time, relief mixed with a strange kind of regret, because,
after all, that connection had helped save his life. "Oh, well, that's good
too, I guess. I wouldn't want her knowing what I was feeling all the time."
      Angel silently agreed with that, but he had one last question for the
Oracles. Remembering the female Oracle's comment about Doyle now being,
thankfully, where he was supposed to be, he asked, "So, are you saying that
Doyle's death was a mistake?"
      He and Doyle waited with bated breath for her reply.
      "It was . . . premature," the female Oracle told them, and Angel knew
that this was the best, and only, answer, they would ever get.
      He turned then, walked to where Doyle was sitting, smiled at him. "So,
she kissed you, huh?" He'd already known this, of course. Cordelia had told
him everything after she had woken up, while they'd both watched Doyle sleep
one of his marathon sleeps. But he knew Doyle would expect some kind of
comment to his statement, and Angel didn't want to disappoint him.
      "Yeah, and quite a kiss it was, let me tell you." Doyle grinned, shook
his head in only half-mock disbelief. "And with me in full demon form, too.
You know, I'm starting to think that there just might be a future for us." He
looked up at Angel, his eyes full of joy at the prospect. "Scary, huh?"
      "Terrifying," Angel told him, filled with joy himself.
      The male Oracle had all he could take of this sentimentality. He made a
disgusted sound, and waved his arm in one smooth, fluid motion. "This
audience is over!"
      But as that same 'transportation tingle' began, and he and Doyle began
to fade from the room, Angel was positive he saw the female Oracle smile.

******************************************************************************

      Doyle staggered as they reappeared in the Oracles' 'waiting room'.
Angel reached out, grabbed his friend's arm, steadied him.
      "Thanks, man. I wasn't quite ready for that." Doyle then leaned against
his old friend, the wall. He looked at Angel a minute, then crossed his arms
over his chest.   "So, man, you got all your answers, right? You understood
all that, then?"
      Angel shook his head. "No. But I never do with them." He gave a slight
laugh. "Actually, I think they like it that way."
      "Yeah, well, I guess it does keep us 'planet bound beings' in our lowly
place," Doyle quipped.
      Angel smiled, chuckled a little, nodded, then turned serious.
      "But it doesn't matter, Doyle," he said, and walked over to stand
directly in front of the half-demon.
      He reached out, put his hands on Doyle's shoulders. Doyle grasped
Angel's arm at the elbow, and the two men stood looking into each other's
eyes. It was a moment very much like the one on the Quintessa, and yet very
different at the same time. Posturally, it was the same, emotionally, it was
completely opposite. That night on the Quintessa, they had both been certain
they were about to die; they had been saying good-bye. Now, at this moment,
both were very much alive, and they knew that they were starting over . . .
together.
      "All that matters," Angel continued, "is what I do understand; that
you're alive; that you're where you're supposed to be; that I have you back,
for sure." He broke eye contact, looked down at the floor. "They were right,
you know, when they said I wasn't functioning without you. I wasn't. In fact,
Doyle, there were times when I . . ." He stopped as strong emotion
overwhelmed him, looked up at Doyle, his feelings clear in his eyes. "Well,
let's just say that I'm sure my future did indeed look . . . bleak."
      Doyle, overwhelmed by what he saw in Angel's eyes, tried to keep it
somewhat light. "Well, you know, a guy likes to know when he's needed."
      What might have been a small sob turned into a laugh, as Angel pulled
the half-demon into a gentle, but firm, embrace. "Oh, Doyle. I don't know if
you'll ever know how much."
      "Oh, I don't know, man. I think I do." Doyle returned the embrace, felt
tears sting his eyes. "'Cause I feel the same way about you, Angel. I feel
the same way about you."
      Then he shook himself, took a deep breath, pulled back from Angel a
little, so he could look into his face. "Come on now, man. Enough of all this
doom and gloom stuff, okay? I mean, we're back, right? We're really back, and
that's a good thing, yeah?"      "Couldn't be any better," Angel told him.
      "Right, then. Okay. Let's . . ."
      "Let's go home," Angel finished for him.
"Yeah, home," Doyle echoed. The word still sounded too good to be true. In
fact . . .     Doyle gave a sudden gasp.
      Angel stopped moving. "What?" he asked, thinking Doyle was in pain.
      "No, I'm all right, man. It's just . . . I don't really have a home, do
I?" Doyle felt truly amazed. "I mean, my apartment, it isn't mine. And all my
stuff . . ."
      "Yeah. Cordelia and I . . . we went through it," Angel told him,
vividly remembered how painful a task that had been. "We kept a few things.
I'll show you. But the rest, we gave away."
      "Or pitched," Doyle said, recalling some of his 'stuff'. "So, I am
homeless."      "You don't have an apartment right now, Doyle. But you're not
homeless," Angel told him, with feeling. "There's a difference, you know."
      "I know, Angel. I'm sorry. You know how grateful I am to you, for
everything. And it means the world to me that you want me to think of your
place as home," Doyle told him earnestly. "But, you know what I mean. I can't
stay with you forever."
      "No. No, you can't," Angel agreed. "And I'm sure there will come a day
when I'll be out there pounding the pavement looking for a place so I can get
'rid of you', or Cordelia will, so she can get rid of me." He chuckled softly
at the thought. "We'll get around to finding you a place, Doyle, when we're
both ready. But for now, I'm just not inclined to, well, let you out of my
sight."
      And Doyle wasn't inclined to argue or protest against Angel's position.
Truth was, that after months of systematic and horrific abuse, and being
treated like he was so much garbage, it felt good to be wanted, cared for,
protected. And Doyle knew that Angel would protect him, with his life, if
necessary.      And so, his, "fair enough," was all Angel needed to hear.
      "Let's go," Angel said.
      They turned and started walking out of the Oracles' 'waiting room'.
Angel put his arm around Doyle's shoulders, partly to support the weak and
sore half-demon, but also because he still felt a need to touch his friend,
to feel that he was alive, to know that Doyle's return was, indeed, real.
      They came to the manhole that led down to the sewers that enabled Angel
to get around during daylight hours. Angel climbed down first, then helped
the still somewhat shaky Doyle down the ladder to the sewer floor.
      Doyle turned, leaned with his back against the ladder, looked up at
Angel. "You know, it occurs to me that the Powers, in their infinite wisdom,
just might take into consideration my weakened condition, and not hammer me
with a bunch of head-splitting visions just yet. And I was thinking . . . if
that's the case, then maybe the four of us could, you know, go out and have
some fun." He paused, gave Angel a pleading look, though his blue eyes
twinkled mischievously. "It's been awhile since I had any fun, man."
      Angel repressed a smile, shook his head, heaved a mock sigh. He hasn't
changed a bit, he thought joyously. And yet, he knew there was a method to
Doyle's madness that went far beyond fun.
      "I don't know, Doyle. You're not really up to it, are you?" Angel
asked, with feigned seriousness. "And I, well . . ."
      "Oh no!" Doyle interrupted, playing along. "You're not going to tell me
that you'd rather spend your evenings brooding in that dark batcave you call
an office, are you? How much of that went on while I was gone? Well, it
doesn't matter, because it stops right now! You can't do it that way, Angel,
man. You've got to get out there, mix with people. You've got to get to know
them, get involved in their lives! You've got to make . . ."
      "That connection," Angel finished, and knew that he'd been right. It
wasn't just about fun. It was also about getting Angel back out there; back
into the groove, back to functioning optimally, back to fighting that good
fight to the best of his ability.
      "Yeah," Doyle said, understanding that Angel understood.
      Angel felt a sudden rush of contentment, as he realized that his
emergence out of the darkness of a life without Doyle, into the light of a
life with Doyle once again in it, was complete.
      "It really is good to have you back, Doyle," he said quietly.
      Doyle nodded, letting Angel know that he understood the vampire's
unspoken thought. But his reply was typical. "Well, good, that's great. But
it doesn't tell me anything." He looked up at Angel, their eyes met. "So,
what do you say, man? Are you game?"
      Angel looked down at his friend, smiled, a huge smile that lit up his
whole face. It was bright enough to rival that smile of Riley Finn's. As he
stood there, he recalled the first time that Doyle had said those words to
him, not long after they had first met, had first started out. It was fitting
that Doyle should say them again to him now, as they started out a second
time, were given a second chance.      "Yeah," he told Doyle. "I'm game."
      Doyle nodded again, smiled back at Angel, with that mischievous grin
that made his eyes sparkle. He moved away from the ladder, into the circle of
Angel's supporting arm. They turned and started walking toward home . . .
toward the unknown future that they would now face together. And, together,
they would handle whatever that future chose to throw at them.

END