Title: "Hollowed" 
Author: MonaR. (aka Mona Ramsey, aka Mona) 
Series: I don't think so. Just dipping my toe in. 
Webpage: the bare skeleton of one is at: 
http://www.geocities.com/monaram/ 
Rating: PG. 
Warnings: Mildly implied slash (m/m) content. 
Little bit of implied m/f, too. Post-character death. 
Archive: Sure. 
Notes: I don't use betas. :( Any mistakes are solely my fault and 
the fault of my *#^&@ spellcheck. ** is used for emphasis, // for 
thought. Any weird characters should be hunted down and killed. 
Feedback: Yes, if you're moved to write me by the story, no, if 
you think that *unless* you write me, I won't write any more 
stories. Anyone with even a glancing knowledge of my posting 
history (this *is* my 400-and-something-th story) knows that 
isn't true. Feedback is gratefully accepted and responded to 
whenever possible. Flames are buried in the backyard, along 
with a few skeletons. 
Spoilers: Yes, big ones for "Hero" and "Parting Gifts". 
Disclaimer: I don't do 'em. Who am I to tell you I'm not TPTB? 
Who are you to believe me? If I must, I'm really not, but how 
will you know? Maybe I got tired of the Hollywood scene and 
decided to settle down for a quiet and underpaid life as a social 
worker. Maybe pigs are flying by my window at this very moment. . . 
Summary: Angel receives a visit from a lost friend. 
{I shouldn't be writing this. I never liked "Buffy", so I didn't 
watch it, and therefore I know less than nothing about the 
character of Angel. However, I did watch the first few eps of 
"Angel", because I liked Doyle (and I like Cordy, too) - so, of 
course, it was my fault when he got offed, and I do apologize 
for that. I'm not watching it anymore, so the show will be a big 
hit and last for years. But the point is that I shouldn't write 
this because I don't know enough about Angel. So that's my 
disclaimer.} 





He knew instinctively that it never would have happened if there was anyone 
around, which was good; that way, he didn't have to pretend *not* to be 
listening for it when Cordelia was there. It probably wouldn't even have 
mattered, because she wasn't usually that in touch with other people's 
feelings - but there were the odd times, when you least expected it, where 
she would surprise you with some spot-on insight, and leave you scrambling 
to cover up the accidentally exposed places again. 

So it was good that it only happened when he was alone. 

Sleep was less of a comfort than it had ever been, and there were times when 
he wished for the stereotypical coffin to crawl inside and nail the lid on 
and pretend that he was more dead than he really was. Technicalities didn't 
matter in cases like this - he hurt, and he walked around the office after 
Cordelia was gone, looking not for a coffee cup with Doyle's name on it, but 
for Doyle. Pleading for Doyle's life back had done nothing; there was no way 
to turn back time *this* time, to see the fist before it came and duck, to 
realize what was going to happen and make it stop. There was nothing to do 
but wander around, add this to the mental list that would be gone over a 
thousand times, looking for the places where *he* could change the past, 
atone. Remove some of this ache. 

They were right; Doyle's death *had* meant something. It had meant a lot, 
and he wouldn't have taken his friend's final act of sacrifice and heroism 
away from him for anything *less* than the immeasurable comfort of having 
him back. It was selfish, and maybe even the wish for it was something else 
to regret, but it was true, and he didn't know how to make it stop. 
And then it happened. 

The first time had been a crinkle of paper and then a sound, so familiar - a 
hollow slosh of liquid and the contraction of neck muscles as the falsely 
aged scotch was swallowed. He'd stopped, and the sound was right behind him. 
He didn't turn until it came again. 

Doyle grinned at him - cheekbones so sharp they nearly cut through the pale 
skin arching upwards in his face. "You look as though you've seen a ghost." 
Angel said the only thing that occurred to him at the time - the one thing 
that would haunt him, ironically enough, for the rest of his life. "You're 
dead." 

"That *was* a joke," Doyle muttered, still grinning. He perched on the edge 
of the desk. "Still, I suppose it's only funny if you're on this side." He 
took another swallow from the bottle in his hand, and Angel had to shut his 
eyes to keep from staring at the pale contractions of his neck. "So, it 
worked, then." 

"You're not real," Angel said, eyes still shut tight. 

"Oh, pardon me, Mr. Undead," Doyle said, rolling his eyes. "You've got no 
problem believing in demons and werewolves and your own kind and whatever 
else happens to crawl out of the nearest Hellmouth, but a mere ghost is too 
much for you? I'll just leave you alone, then. Maybe Cordy's awake. I'll 
probably scare ten years off of her." He hopped down from the desk. 
Angel shot out a hand, reflexively, to make him stay, but Doyle dodged it 
before it could come into contact. "What?" 

"It's against the rules, my boy," Doyle said, wagging a finger. "No contact. 
I was lucky to get *this*," he lifted the bottle in his hand, but didn't 
bring it to his lips. "Technically, this is against the rules, too, but, 
hell - I've got the rest of eternity to atone for this* - or so they tell 
me." 

"Where *are* you?" 

"I'm right in front of you," Doyle said. He sat on the desk again, and swung 
one leg out in front of him. 

"You know what I mean." 

Doyle shook his head, and cracked another grin. "Can't talk about it. Spoils 
the surprise." His eyes softened, and he said, "It's a good place. It isn't 
what I thought it would be - it's no Fort Lauderdale at Spring Break - but 
it's all right. You'll like it." 

Angel closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I can't smell you," he said. 

"You always *were* fond of sniffing people out, weren't you?" Doyle asked. 

"Nah. Most of everything's gone. This'll be gone, soon," he said, indicating 
his body, " - at least, anything that makes any sense here. Not that much 
makes sense here, but you know what I mean." He rubbed one index finger over 
the lip of the bottle and asked, nonchalantly, "So, How's Cordy?" 

"Well, your little 'gift' almost got her killed, but other than that - " 

Doyle was shocked. "What? What are you talking about?" 

"When you kissed her and gave her your visions. Someone bad found out about 
it, and decided that the best way to take it from her would be by cutting 
her eyes out." Angel shrugged. "But she seems to be fine, now. We took care 
of it." 

"Back it up for me," Doyle said, still looking confused. "When I kissed her 
and did what?" 

"Made her a seer." 

"I didn't do that. I was just trying to score one last time before I took 
the swan dive to oblivion, that's all. Huh." Doyle shook his head. "Well, I 
guess the s.o.b's got me again." 

"Who?" 

"The Powers That Be, my boy. They jerked me around my whole life. It's 
fitting that they have one last crack at the hour of my death, too, don't 
you think?" 

"So you didn't - ?" 

Doyle shook his head. "'Twasn't me. I didn't even know such a thing could be 
done. You don't get instruction manuals with these sorts of things. They 
just throw it on you and you make the best of it. If I knew I could kiss it 
away, I'd probably have done it right from the start." 

"You wouldn't have," Angel said, firmly. 

"Yeah, well - maybe not. But we'll never know, will we?" He chuckled with an 
air of self-deprecation. "I suppose that's what I get for trying to play 
hero." 

"You weren't playing. You *were* a hero. You saved all of those people, and 
Cordelia, and me. Nobody who was playing could have done that." 
Doyle just ducked his head, seeming uncomfortable with the sentiment. "I 
guess I got lucky." 

Although he wanted to argue the point further, Angel realized that that 
would be as close as Doyle would get to taking the credit for what he'd 
done, and let it go at that. Instead, Angel sat gingerly down on the desk, 
beside his friend, not close enough to touch him, but close enough so that 
the feel of him was a sharper ache inside. Doyle almost glowed - he was so 
thin and his skin was so pale, he'd almost glowed at the best of times - but 
now, in the dim half-light of the pre-dawn, he seemed - ethereal. Like there 
was a light that was coming from within the depths of him. That wasn't all, 
though. 

"You look different," Angel said, studying his profile. "I don't know what 
it is. It's just - different. Something around the eyes." 

Doyle turned his head and grinned at him, but said nothing. His green eyes 
glowed as he smiled. 

"You're human," Angel said, finally. The realization was startling to him. 
It *was* around the eyes, though, that the absence of anything else was most 
noticeable. "*Only* human." 

Doyle nodded. "The demon side's gone. Apparently it doesn't transport well 
to where I ended up. Who knew?" 

"Do you miss it?" 

It took him a while to answer, but finally Doyle said, "Yeah, a little. 
How'd you know?" 

Angel just shrugged. 

"It's like looking around for something that *should* be there, but isn't 
anymore," Doyle mused. "Something you never think you'll miss until it's 
gone. I suppose the song's right: you never know what you've got until it's 
gone." 

Angel closed his eyes. "Yeah." 

"It wasn't your fault, you know," Doyle said, his voice low. "It was what I 
needed to do. It didn't really have anything to do with you." 

"Yeah," Angel said, in a tone that didn't convince either one of them. 
Doyle, understanding, didn't press the point, either. "You shouldn't sit 
here alone, brooding in the dark, you know. I mean, I *know* it's 
practically the first thing that they teach you in 'How to be a Cool 
Vampire' school, but it gets a little clichéd after a while. You should 
break new ground. Just think of it: you could be 'Angel, the Smiling 
Vampire!' People would come from miles around, just to see you." 
Despite himself, Angel did smile, just a little. "Just what I've always 
wanted," he said, dryly. 

"Whoa - I made the brooding guy smile!" Doyle cracked, clutching his chest 
and feigning shock. "I'd better leave while I'm on such a high note." 

"You don't have to go," Angel said, quickly. "I'll stop smiling." 

"Don't stop on my account," Doyle chuckled, and got to his feet. "I've got 
to go anyway. My time's running out, again. I just wanted to see the old 
place again, you know?" He chuckled. "I never thought I'd miss these 
cockroaches, but I do." He took one last, long sweeping glance around the 
office, and then walked to the door. When he got there, he leaned against 
the door-jam, and said, "Tell me something, truthfully, before I go?" 

"What?" 

"Did you ever dream about me when I was alive?" 

Something caught in the middle of Angel's chest, contracted, and squeezed 
hard. He pressed his eyes tightly shut, and tried to form something that 
could be an answer that would mean what he needed it to. 

Before Angel could speak, he felt a brush of something against his face - 
not distinct or warm enough to be a touch, not quite, but heavier than a 
breeze. Cool, but not enough to make him shiver. It disappeared almost as 
soon as it came, and when he opened his eyes, Doyle was gone. Only then 
could he manage to answer the question, to the empty room. 

"Yes."