New Year's Slash, Part 2/3 ---------- "Aaaand daaayz of Auld Lang Zzzzynnnnne..." they sang together, finishing as the clock struck the last note. "Tha's it!" cried Cordelia. "Happy new year!" She toasted them, dripping champagne, and tossed back the last of it. Angel threw a handful of napkins at her, and she clumsily wiped at the drips on his precious leather chair. "Happy new year, princess, Angel," said Doyle, grinning. He was looking a bit more sober now than he had an hour ago, having decided that any more drinking and he would pass out and miss the magic moment. "Happy new year, you two," said Angel, laying his head on the back of the couch and chuckling quietly at nothing. His head was feeling pleasantly light, and he was pretty sure that if he stood up, his knees would give way. "Ang', are you drunk?" asked Doyle. "I'm drunk," Angel affirmed. "Plastered. Slashed. Uh - sloshed, I mean." Cordelia snickered. "You know what 'slashed' means?" "Cut with a big knife?" ventured Angel, sitting up and reaching for his glass, intent on keeping this comfortable feeling until he passed out from it. "No, not the *gross* meaning," said Cordelia, with an exaggerated shudder. "It means... it means... it's when somebody thinks you're having... or should be having... uhm, gay sex with a certain somebody else." Angel aspirated champagne, choked and silently gave thanks that he didn't actually have to breathe. Doyle laid his head back, laughing uncontrollably. "Quit laughing," said Cordelia indignantly. "I'm serious! There's like, a whole word for it in Japanese or something. It's not just that somebody thinks you're gay; it's that there's somebody in particular they think you should be screwing, somebody same-sex." She looked into her empty glass. "Oh, shoot." Angel reached for the bottle and gave her a refill. "So let me get this straight. You think there's - that I should - you're 'slashing' *me*?!" "I didn't say that!" Cordelia immediately defended herself. "You said you were slashed and I thought it was funny 'cause you didn't know what it meant and Kate and I do and we... ah, oops." She dabbed at the damp spot on her blouse with a wadded napkin. "Kate?!" Angel sputtered. Doyle leaned forward and slid to the floor, giggling helplessly. "Oh, Kate asked me - when she first met you, she totally thought you were gay," Cordelia snickered, and hiccupped. "But I told her no, you had an ex-girlfriend and I knew for a fact you'd actually slept with her and it wasn't just a front for secret gayness, and then she wanted to know if *we* were together and I said no *way*, me an' Angel, tha'd be, just *wrong*, y'know, and then - get this - then she told me she'd thought at first you were sleeping with Doyle!" Doyle made a noise oddly like a cat coughing up a hairball. He put one arm on the couch and levered himself up from the floor, tears of mirth still on his cheeks. "Yer fuckin' kiddin' me," he said. "She said that?" "Yep," Cordelia asserted gleefully. "So I told her if Angel *was* sleeping with you, then maybe we could get you to buy some new clothes, like, *not* at the Salvation Army, so that would be a good thing, but no, Angel's totally clueless as usual but you definitely had the hots for him, and she said she could totally see it, and I said me too, and, and, maybe I should shut up now." Angel refilled her glass again. "Oh, no," he said. "This is great. So you think Doyle's got the hots for me, huh?" He offered the bottle to Doyle, who held out his glass this time and accepted the refill. Their eyes met and Angel couldn't stop the huge grin that took over his face at the Irishman's embarrassed expression. "Well, I did tell 'er I was a li'l attracted," Doyle admitted. "But what d'you expect, you walking around all swirly leather coat and brown eyes-" Doyle waved his arm for emphasis, spilling some champagne on the couch. Angel growled and grabbed for napkins. Doyle started to rise, thought better of it, and settled back comfortably to the floor. "And I do not shop at the Salivation Army." "Do too, I saw you coming out of there two weeks ago with bags of ugly shirts," Cordelia sniffed. "Yeah? What were you doing there, then?" Doyle challenged. "I - " Cordelia blinked, momentarily trapped, and then pointed her finger at him and crowed, "I was making a donation! I was getting rid of last season's clothes, that's what I was doing!" "Oh yeah?" Doyle pounced. "So those tan cargo pants you were wearin' yesterday, how come I didn't see those when cargo pants were in, huh?" Cordelia shrieked and covered her face. "Ohmigod! The shame, the horror!" She threw her wadded-up napkin at him. "You're not supposed to know what's out!" She started laughing. "And those were khaki, smart man, not tan!" "Well, lemme tell ya, princess, khaki ain't yer color," Doyle snickered, wiping at his eyes with his shirt sleeve. "Are they cotton? 'Course they are. Tell ya what, throw 'em in a vat of black dye and maybe you can wear 'em 'til spring, yeah?" "Oooo, good idea! Show me how?" "Sure!" "'Skuse me," said Angel. "This is just marvelous, you two bonding over clothes of all things, but since I don't even know what cargo pants are-" "They're those baggy ones with the big pocket on the-" "-that you wouldn't be caught dead in, oh, sorry-" "-and I don't care, either, what about this gay thing?" Cordelia waved her glass and bubbly slashed - er, sloshed onto the leather chair. He snarled again in frustration, louder this time, and grabbed for more napkins. Cordy looked at his face as he leaned over to mop up the spill himself, and said, "Wow. You *really* like this chair, don'cha, fang-face?" "Sorry about that," Angel mumbled, realizing belatedly that he'd slipped. He smoothed his jagged countenance back into human shape, and sent the wad of damp napkins flying neatly into a wastebasket in the kitchen. "Two points!" cheered Doyle from the floor. "It's harder to keep control when I'm drunk," Angel explained to Cordelia, who was looking at him askance. "It's okay, really." "Okay," she said. "'slong as you're not gonna put the bite on me for slashing you." Angel rolled his eyes. "No, but thanks for that glimpse into the twisted depths of your mind, Cordelia." He settled back and reached for the bottle, and found it empty. "Fuck." He levered himself up and headed unsteadily into the kitchen for another bottle. Cordelia stared at Doyle. "Angel said fuck!" Doyle nodded somberly. "He never says fuck. What d'ya think it means?" Angel opened the champagne clumsily, causing the other two to startle at the small explosion. "It means, fuck, this is the last bottle," he said. "Angel cursing, man, it could be a sign of the spock - apockalips," said Doyle. "You know, end-of-the-world, millennium-type stuff." "Doyle, bite me," said Angel, returning with the bottle. Doyle apparently found the comment hysterically funny and sprawled back against the couch, giggling and snorting. "Can't a guy just say fuck?" Angel continued, letting his shaky legs drop him more-or-less gracefully back onto his couch. He poured champagne into his glass, very carefully. "I think it's a Froodian slip," announced Cordelia, holding out her glass. "You're gonna pass out," Angel warned her. "So? Do I have to work tomorrow?" "Uh, no." "So. I'll pass out and sleep here, okay?" "Okay." He poured, and she drank. "What was a Freudian slip?" "Oh, you know," she said. "When you say something that isn't what you meant to say, but it's really what you meant after all - " "Cordelia. I know what it is," Angel interrupted. "I meant, what, specifically, right now, was a Freudian slip?" "Oh! You saying fuck." "Huh? How's that?" Angel frowned. "Because, we were just talking about slashing, you know, and Doyle thinking you're hot, and you saying fuck probably means that you secretly want to - oh, boy, I really am drunk, aren't I?" Cordelia covered her face and rested her elbows on her knees. "Yep," said Doyle, "you really are. And I wish I was too, but suddenly I'm feelin' downright sober." Angel turned to look at him. "You don't look sober." "No?" Doyle's face was flushed, his eyes bright, and he looked up at Angel with a worried expression. "Then I guess it must be the stark ravin' terror bringin' me back down ta earth." Angel grinned at him. "What are you scared of?" "You!" said Doyle, waving one hand, the one that didn't have a glass, this time. "I mean, not that I really think you'd hurt me or anyt'in', but I really never meant for you to find out that I... and I *really* never meant to have anyone think that you're - uh..." "Well, what anyone thinks about me isn't your fault," said Angel reasonably. He paused, deliberately waiting as Doyle took another gulp of champagne, and added, "And besides, I am." Doyle choked, and nearly spit. "Damn it, Angel!" Cordelia raised her head. "What?!" "I'm bisexual." Angel shrugged. "I'm a *vampire*. Although, I kinda think I was bi even before that." Cordelia groaned. "Have I passed out yet? How could I not know this?" Doyle set his glass down on the floor. "You, uh, you hide it well." "Well, I've been avoiding the whole sex thing entirely, you know, so there hasn't really been any reason to mention it." "Right, your curse," said Doyle. "Not like I'm getting' any these days meself, but if I thought I never could again..." He shuddered. "How do you stand it, Angel?" Cordelia burst out. "I mean, the thought that you can never... never... " "Hold it," said Angel, holding up his hands. "Maybe I should have talked about this, actually. It's not that I can't, uh, have sex. I can." "But you'll lose your soul!" said Cordelia. "And you can't ever risk that, and so - oh - you're so *brave* - !" She sniffled. "I won't lose my soul from having sex, Cordy," said Angel. "Who told you that?" "What *told*?" demanded Cordelia. "Everybody knows it! You did the deed with Buffy, and wham, bam, it's The Late Night With Angelus Show! I was *there*, remember?" "Yeah, I know you were, but-" "You were there when they-?" asked Doyle, his brow furrowed. "Not *there* there, you pervert; in Sunnydale. I know what happened!" Angel sighed. "It was being truly happy that did it, Cordelia. With Buffy, for a few moments, I felt - forgiven. As if the weight of my crimes had lifted off me. Buffy's the only woman I've ever really loved, and I knew she loved me back. I was happy. That's what cost me my soul, not the sex." "Oh." Cordelia sat back, looking like her world had been rearranged. "Does Buffy know that?" "Of course she does." "Well, that sucks stupendously, then," Cordelia declared. "You can do it, just not with *her*. God, no wonder she's such a bitch when you're around!" "She's not - well, okay, she sorta has been, lately," Angel conceded. "But I can't blame her, really. It - sucks." He stared into his glass of sparkling amber liquor, seeing the face of the young woman he'd loved past all reason, and lost for loving too much. "Uh-oh," said Doyle. "Angst alert! He's starting to brood." "Oh, god, no," groaned Cordelia theatrically. "Don't you dare, Angel! We're too drunk to resist the misery vibe. Don't you get us all weepy too!" Angel raised his eyes and brought himself back to the present. Sadness clung to him, and for once, he was unwilling to let himself sink into it. "Okay," he said, "help me out. Give me something else to think about." "Sorry, man," said Doyle. "All I can think about now is sex." "So what's different now?" asked Cordelia smartly. "That's all you think about anyway." "Is not," said Doyle. "Sometimes I think about fightin' evil. Sometimes I think about drinkin'." He reached for the bottle in front of Angel and poured more champagne. "Sometimes I think about havin' sex while drinkin' and fightin' evil." "At the same time?" asked Angel, his mouth twitching into a smile. "Yup," Doyle assented. "Bottle o' whiskey in one hand, me mighty sword in t'other, beautiful damsel wrapped around me leg like that movie poster, you know the one..." Angel started to snicker at the mental picture. Cordelia covered her mouth with one hand, smothering giggles. Doyle rose to his knees to strike a manly pose, his glass aloft, holding his imaginary sword before him in a suggestive position. His friends broke up laughing, and Doyle relaxed back against the couch, chuckling at his own antics. "That's better," he said softly. "M-mighty sword," gasped Cordelia happily. "Dare I contemplate what that damsel's doing down there with your mighty sword?" Doyle winked broadly at her. "Right about that point I usually forget all about fightin' th'evil," he admitted. "There, see," snickered Cordelia, "see, that's why Angel doesn't have sex! He has priorities! He'd rather fight evil than get blowjobs!" She wiped her eyes with a napkin and inadvertently smeared her mascara into cats-eyes. Doyle watched her, enchanted. "Well, a good blowjob is very distracting," said Angel with a straight face, and then groaned loudly. "Please, this is too much," he said, laughing. "I never thought I'd be talking about blowjobs with Cordelia Chase!" "Hey! I'm offended! You think I'm still a kid, don'cha, old guy?" Cordelia said, her sharp tone belied by her grin. Angel held up his hands. "Last thing I'd want to do is offend you," he chuckled. "You run my office; I'm in your power." "As a matter of fact, I give a damn good blowjob," said the former high school beauty queen smugly. "Ohhh, the damsel just got a face," said Doyle happily. She shrieked and threw a handful of crumpled napkins at him, and they fluttered to the floor around him like unfolding origami doves. "I can't believe I'm saying this to you guys," she groaned. "I have to *work* with you guys." Angel refilled her glass. He realized he'd never thought about Cordelia that way before. The truth was, she was right; he had always thought of her as the same spoiled, naïve teenage girl she'd been when he'd first met her. Hearing the word 'blowjob' fall from her perfect lips made him realize that the bratty ingenue he'd always patronized had become a grown woman who brooked no such treatment from anyone but him. Angel sat back, sprawling a little on the couch, arms and legs spread comfortably wide. Doyle groaned softly and hauled himself up onto the couch. "I do not need to be on the floor right now," he muttered. Angel gave him a quick glance to make sure he wasn't going to pass out. The smaller man was gazing steadfastly at Cordelia and didn't look at him. Angel turned his attention back to her. "Tell us more," he encouraged wickedly. "What's to tell?" Cordelia teased back. She pushed herself back in the chair, curling her legs up under her. Her short skirt rode up, giving the two men a long glimpse of her smooth thighs as she shifted position, and a clear view of slender bare ankles and the slightest curve of hip as she settled. Angel could feel the increased heat rising from the body slumped beside him, and he almost laughed. Poor Doyle. "Tell us how the Bitch Queen of Sunnydale High learned how to give a damn good blowjob," said Angel, with affection. "That's a story I really want to hear." "Well," she said, playing with the stem of her glass, "of course, even when I was just a freshman, I used to date seniors and fraternity boys, and you know, it's not enough if you're totally beautiful and a great conversationalist, they want you to put out or they'll dump you and tell their friends you did anyway. And I couldn't have *them* dumping *me*, right, no way! And no way was I going to lose my virginity to some dumb fratboy who wouldn't even put a big shiny rock on my finger. So a friend of mine who was in college told me, all guys really want is to get off, they don't care how, and they like blowjobs even better than sex, 'cause they don't have to work for it. So I learned how to give the best damn blowjobs those stupid jocks would ever have, and nobody ever dumped me. Ever." She finished her story with a slurp of champagne. "Wow," murmured Doyle, with a hint of awe in his tone. Angel glanced at him again, and was surprised to find the young seer looking at him. Specifically, at the bulge in his jeans revealed by his sprawled posture. He realized suddenly that the earlier conversation hadn't been a joke; Doyle really was hot for him. A wicked idea came to him, of seducing the young man, and he judged himself just drunk enough to carry it through. He turned back to Cordelia, who was watching them both with half-closed eyes. "So, what's the difference between a regular blowjob and a damn good blowjob?" he asked casually, daring her with his eyes to come out and play. She double-dared him back with a flutter of long eyelashes. "Well..." she drawled, "I'd say it's the tongue action, there, Angel, wouldn't you? I mean, you've surely had a few BJs in your life; what do you say is the crucial difference?" "Hm," mused Angel. He thought about blowjobs, and grinned lasciviously. The heat gathering in his groin was a delicious feeling, one he'd suppressed in the company of beautiful women - and beautiful men - for many months, for years even, and he was drunk enough right now to be unable to quite remember why. "I'd say it's... boys." Cordelia's mouth dropped open, and Angel silently scored himself a point. "The best blowjobs I've ever had came from guys," he said cheerfully, as if they were talking about places to get a good rare steak. To his surprise, Doyle picked up the ball. "And why would you say that's so, Ang'?" Angel couldn't keep the grin off his face. He turned to his right-hand man and said boldly, "Well, mainly 'cause they can deep-throat better." Cordelia made an evocative gagging sound. "Never, never, never! Absolute yuck!" She stood up, and Angel lunged to his feet to catch her in time to keep her from falling over. She clung to his arm for a moment, then got her legs under her and stood up, shaky but sure. "Bathroom," she muttered. He turned her around and let her go and she headed off down the hall. "You, uh, are you going to throw up?" Angel asked after her, feeling slightly guilty for playing games when Cordelia was not in full control of her faculties. "From champagne? Hardly," snorted the Queen, and shut the door decisively behind herself. Angel sat back down slowly. "Guess she's okay," he said. "She'll be fine," said Doyle. Angel turned to look at him. The Irishman's flushed cheek was pillowed on his own arm, which was again draped over the back of the couch, hand nearly touching Angel's shoulder. The hand moved slightly, and gentle fingers drew a caress up Angel's arm. "Question is, will we?" He looked adorable, Angel decided, and abandoned his strategy for seduction as completely unnecessary. "I think we'll be just fine," he said softly. He leaned forward, bracing his right arm on the other side of Doyle's hip, gently trapping him in the curve of his body. Doyle lifted his head a little, to meet Angel's mouth with a hesitant kiss. The sweet caress of lips lasted barely a minute, when a shriek from down the hall jerked them apart. "Cordelia?" called Doyle in concern. "What, is the damn john haunted too?" muttered Angel. Cordelia appeared, rubbing at her face with a yellow towel. "My god, why didn't you tell me I had mascara smeared all over my face?! I look hideous!" She glared at them, her face scrubbed clean of make-up, looking much too young for the conversation they'd just been having. "You look lovely, princess," said Doyle soothingly. She tossed the towel back through the door of the bathroom, heedless of where it fell. Angel ground his teeth, having a flashback to the miserable week when she'd shared his apartment. "Can I go to sleep now? I'm-" She lost the rest of her sentence in a huge yawn. "There you go," said Doyle. "I'm surprised she lasted this long. She's too little to hold 'er liquor." Angel met her in the hallway, where she stood swaying on her feet, and lifted her into his arms. "Come on, princess," he said softly. "Bedtime. And no peanut butter in the bed," he added, teasing. "I didn't," she mumbled. "Uh-huh," he said. He carried her to his bed and laid her gently down. Doyle appeared with a blanket and spread it over her. She was already asleep. They stood and looked at her for a moment. "Full o' surprises, isn't she?" Doyle murmured.