Title: Inside
Author: Amatia
Email: beech000@uwp.edu
Pairing: Angel/Doyle (if you squint)
Rating: PG
Archive: Sure
Spoilers: The episode with the ocular surgeon...
Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing them, no profit to be made, honestly...

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     That night, I was sitting on Angel's couch, drinking beer. It was a
few days after the case with the ocular surgeon who could detatch his body
parts, and we hadn't had any clients since. So as usual I was at his place,
and we were watching some movie he'd rented. He was sprawled across half of
the couch, beer bottle dangling from his hand. Angel wasn't the type to
curl up on a couch, or tuck himself into the corner, and neither was I, so
between us we covered the whole thing. His arms stretched across most of
the back, and the fingers of his right hand almost touched my neck.

     "Hey Doyle," he said after several minutes of the movie, "is it
just me, or is this one of the worst movies you've ever seen?"

     "It's pretty bad," I agreed. "Got anything different?"

     "No. Want another beer?"

     "Sure."

     His fingers accidentally brushed my neck as he stood up, and I
couldn't help but watch him move. He was the most unknowingly sensual being
I'd ever met, that I had to admit. I watched him walk over to the
refridgerator. Just as he reached for the handle, the phone rang. He picked
it up. "Hello?"

     I saw the expression on his face go from one of quiet content to
one of deep sadness that was unlike any expression I'd ever seen on his
face before. In a flash, I knew that it had something to do with Buffy.
"Thank you for calling me," he murmured into the phone, and hung up.

     "Angel?" I asked softly. "Do you want me to go?"

     "No."

     "Would you like me to go with you to Sunnydale?"

     Angel stared at me, and I could see the look in his eyes, wondering
how I knew. "No, I can't go to Sunnydale."

     He got two more beers from the refridgerator, and came and sat down
again. His hand was shaking as he handed me one. I watched him twist the
top off of his and take a long drink. "Want to tell me what happened?" I
asked.

     "Spike went back to Sunnydale," he said heavily, "and he beat Buffy
really bad. He didn't kill her, but she is in the hospital. They're
expecting a full recovery. Willow was kind enough to let me know."

     "Whatever you're thinking, Angel, it's not your fault."

     He was already shaking his head at me. "Don't waste your breath
telling me that, Doyle."

     I reached out and laid my hand on his arm. "What Spike does he does
because it pleases him, and you know that. Don't feel guilty for his
perversity."

     "If I would have killed him, this wouldn't have happened." He took
another swig from the bottle, then set it down with a sigh.

     "You made a choice between going after Spike and going after
Marcus," I said as gently as I could. "As awful as he is, Spike was the
lesser of two evils."

     "Maybe you're right," he said. "But I still feel responsible for
Buffy being in the hospital."

     "Angel, would you rather Buffy be in the hospital or dozens of
schoolchildren tortured and murdered?" His head snapped up, and his eyes
met mine. I kept talking. "I know it sounds awful, but it's the way the
situation was. Spike hurt Buffy because Buffy hurt him, but those children
never did anything to Marcus."

     He reached up and rubbed his face. After awhile he said, "I'm glad
that you already know about everything that happened in Sunnydale. I
wouldn't want to have to go through it all."

     He looked so forlorn that I could't help myself anymore, and I
reached over and hugged him. He jumped in surprise, then accepted the hug.
"Thanks," he mumbled when I let go.

     "You looked like you could use it," was my reply. But it was really
my way of touching him without it meaning anything but simple comfort.

     Angel got up and shut off the movie, which was still running. He
sat back down on the edge of the couch, resting his head in his hands. I
grasped his shoulder, forcing him to look at me. "Angel. Don't make this
another burden that you think you have to carry."

     I could see in his dark eyes that he wanted to, but that he knew I
was right. After a moment, he nodded and sat up straight. I dropped my hand
from his shoulder. He grasped it, and pulled me close next to him, so that
we touched from shoulder down to hip, through thigh and knee, and the sides
of our feet pressed together.

     "I'm thankful that you're here," he said softly. "Whatever the
Powers that Be may be, they sure know a good man."

     And so we sat, connected.

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