Title: Fall Again Author: Livia E-mail: livia001@hotmail.com Feedback/Criticism: Always appreciated. Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. Rating: PG Summary: A missing Doyle/Angel scene from 'City Of.' Distribution: Yes to UCSL. Spoilers: None. Fall Again 01/31/00 by Livia We walk to the liquor store in silence, a welcome change from the 'This Is Your Life' routine. Still, it's not exactly quiet. Even at this hour, LA is busier and brighter than Sunnydale ever was. Hookers, the homeless and hopped-up club kids wander streets illuminated less by moonlight or street lamps than the dirty, ambient light of the city itself-- headlights and neon trapped and reflected downward by the constantly hovering layers of pollution in the skies above. I think of the First Evil. It said I was worthless. It said I'd only ever been good at hurting people. It said I'd only ever hurt Buffy. It didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. And then it said that it had brought me back from Hell to serve its purposes. To kill Buffy. So I went up on the hillside, and waited for the sun. Maybe it wasn't the strong choice. But I've never been strong. I told her that. After I got my soul back, I spent almost a century huddling in wet, stinking alleys, drinking the blood of flea-infested rats and mad stray cats, and never seriously thought of walking into the sun... Whistler dragged me out of the gutter. But sometimes I wonder if he was right to do so. If I'd never loved, I'd never have fallen again, killed again, caused so much pain. And tonight another demon, or half-demon, has slouched out of the darkness, claiming to know me. To know how to save my soul. Why am I not more suspicious? His name is Doyle, he said. Half-human on his mother's side, and my self-appointed new best friend. Buy me a Billy D's, he said. I don't know why, but I will. My senses honed by decades of hunting, I hear everything as we walk, all the sounds of the street-- distant car horns, the yowling and wailing of sirens and cats. Whores calling out to passers-by. Stumbling footsteps. Drunken laughter. Doyle has his head cocked as well. "Ah, the children o' the night, what music they make, hey?" I give him a look. And a twenty. He disappears inside the liquor store. I hate vampire movies. They never get it right. Which reminds me of something I was going to ask... Doyle comes out, clutching a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, and I fall into step beside him. "Do you know a demon named Whistler?" He shakes his head, uncapping the bottle. "Never heard of 'im. Local fella?" "No." I should have known. No one's told this guy the first thing about vampires. Obviously. Back at my place, he bragged about entering uninvited, so he's either playing dumb or he really doesn't know that nobody needs to be invited into a vampire's home. And the way he's dressed-- god, I can hardly look at him. That shirt is the reddest thing I've seen in weeks. Arterial crimson. Redder than the blood smearing the forehead of that girl I rescued earlier tonight. It makes my mouth water. The collar flares over the lapels of his soft suede jacket, as if purposely calling attention to his throat. He lectures me as we walk, but I have to force myself to pay attention to his voice. "It's not about saving lives, it's about saving souls-- possibly yer own in the process." I follow, watching the almost imperceptible movement of blood under skin at the pulse-point just behind his jaw... No. Concentrate. "I want to know who sent you." "I'm honestly not sure." he admits, and tilts his head back for a long drink. A silver chain around his neck glints as he swallows. Like the color of his shirt, it appeals to all my predatory instincts. "They don't speak to me direct. I get visions, which is to say great splitting migraines that come with pictures. A name, a face... I don't know who sends 'em. I just know whoever sends 'em is more powerful than me or you, and they're just trying to make things right." "Why me?" I breathe through my mouth, scenting him. He may look human, but he doesn't smell that way. Humans smell warm and red. Doyle is cool like ocean water, blue-green and fresh like a tide-pool. "Because you've got potential. And the balance sheet isn't exactly in your favor." "Well, why you?" Doyle winces. His eyes gleam with honest pain. "Well, we all got something to atone for." I believe that. He reaches into his pocket for a piece of paper. "Had a vision this morning. When the blinding pain stopped I wrote this down." The name is Tina. A time, a place, and that's it. Apparently Doyle and his Powers expect me to find out the rest myself. I don't see the point of this, but Doyle counters each of my arguments with cheerful zeal. Finally I just have one more objection. "I'm not good with people." That doesn't faze him either. "Well, that's the whole point of this little exercise, isn't it?" He grins. "Are you game?" I stare at him, and he matches my gaze. His eyes are startling, blue-green, an exact match for his scent. "I don't know." "Well, all right then!" He slides off the hood of the car, throwing his free arm around my shoulders to give me an encouraging thump on the back. "It's a start." The contact, the closeness-- on top of everything else, it's too much. I wrap a fist in the redness and drag Doyle off the sidewalk, into an alley. "Hey!" he yelps, losing his grip on his bottle. It clinks, rattles, making a gritty gurgling sound as it rolls into a pile of garbage. His hands come up, locking around my wrists. He's strong for a guy that's not built large. Must be the demon blood. But he's not strong enough. "I'm not going to hurt you." I growl, shoving him up against the concrete wall with one hand. And I won't. But if he's going to be around me, he needs to know what I am. And he needs to learn fast. He needs to know he's playing with fire. I start by roughly untucking his shirt, then unbuttoning it, jerking it open. Doyle's chest heaves as he breathes, sending shadows splaying across the white cotton T-shirt underneath. I jerk at the red shirt. "Take this off." "Sure, sure." His eyes are startled, wide. "Whatever you say, man." He shrugs his jacket off, lets it fall. Still holding him against the wall, I reach around to the small of his back, tangle my hand in the red fabric and yank downwards. The short sleeves come down around Doyle's arms, pulling his hands behind his back, forcing his body forward. He stumbles, chest and thigh moving against me, and I feel his uncontrollable shudder, a reaction to my unnatural coldness. I growl, and press closer. And then he shifts his feet apart, steadying himself-- leaning his weight against me. And then he kisses me. My mouth is half open already, the better to scent his fear. Doyle's tongue slips in smooth as water, warm as blood. He tastes like the sea and alcohol, wildness and revelry, and suddenly I am the helpless one. This feels dangerously like the first time I kissed Buffy, my first kiss in almost a century, when the demon roared out from the hole I'd buried it in, my face turning monstrous and fangs descending despite my desperate efforts at control. Doyle's hands are on my chest, his fingertips leaving warm trails of sensation in their wake. Burning warmth into me. Buffy was special, and so was our love. Only one girl in a million could've cared for me, a worthless Irish bogtrotter a hundred years dead and a vicious murderer a hundred times over. She did love me, and I loved her. So it doesn't really matter-- I tell myself this in the dark sometimes-- it doesn't really matter that underneath it all, from our first kiss to our last, there was a demon lurking under my skin. And then he was loosed, and he killed and killed and killed. I can't change that. All I can do is atone. I left Buffy behind. I did what was right. I kept control. I'm barely hanging onto that control now. Too fast. This is way too fast. I jerk my face away from Doyle's, shoving him back against the building roughly. The shirt falls to the ground. I open my eyes wide, stare down at the concrete and suck in air. I don't have to breathe, but the taste of Doyle is tingling on my tongue, burning my mouth. I need air. "Sorry mate." Doyle says. "I would've asked if you were the kissin' type, but y'came on so sudden-like." He laughs shakily. His accent is stronger now. What-- oh. He thinks I grabbed him and dragged him into the alley because I wanted sex. I want to protest, I haven't been with a man like that since Angelus was the scourge of Europe, but I can't explain now. He kissed me. How can I tell him that I just wanted to make him scared? How can I say that I just wanted to bite, to taste the briny salt of his blood on my tongue, hear his muffled screams-- oh no. No. God. Why did I drag Doyle into the alley, really? "Hey, man." he shifts away smoothly, relaxing against the brick. "It's okay. I been where you been. Not wantin' hearts and flowers necessarily, but a guy's got needs-- I guess even if he's dead, hey?" "It's not that." I blurt out. "I mean-- I'm sorry." Oh god. I can't even look at him now. "This was a bad idea." Stooping, Doyle gathers up his shirt and coat. "Yeah, I get it." He catches my eye, and the kindness in his gaze is disarming, as the gentleness of his mouth was disarming. "On the rebound from the blonde dollie with the super fightin' action, looking for a little comfort. But you just can't forget her..." He's brushing off the shirt now, thoughtfully. Red. So red... I curl my hands into fists and dig my fingernails sharply into my palms, breaking the spell. "Your shirt--" He squints. "Yeah? What about it?" The words won't come. I force them. "Bright colors attract vampires." Doyle's mouth opens in a silent 'ah.' Blue-green eyes like washed glass flash in comprehension. "Do they now?" I nod. I've been backing up slightly ever since he picked up the shirt. "So, uh... Tina, Coffee Spot, seven o'clock, right?" He blinks, then smiles, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, right-- hey, you should go, man! You're gonna be late!" I can't trust myself to stay a moment longer, or say anything more. I'm just gone. But I can still hear Doyle's breathing. I can't block out the soft brush of suede on cotton as he pulls his jacket on. I come out on the other side of the street, and break into a silent run. It appeases the predator inside, a little. I can't kill. I can't feed. But I can move from shadow to shadow faster than anyone alive. Humans on the sidewalk hear only a rustle, feel only a breeze. When the First Evil told me that it had brought me back from Hell to serve it, I didn't want to believe it. But deep inside, a part of me knew. It was true. Killing, feeding. Terror. Cruelty. It's my nature. I can't lie to myself. I'm not a good man. I'm not even a man. But I don't have to hunt, or hurt, or kill. I tell myself that, in the dark sometimes. It doesn't matter that there's a demon sharing my heart. It doesn't matter that Angelus loved Buffy just as much as I ever did. It doesn't matter that I can't get Doyle's taste out of my mouth. I can do good. I don't have to fall again. [end]