Black Holes Where The Stars Would Be
Something's wrong.
Angel's not sure what it is; it can be hard to tell because Doyle's... well, a guy. Plus Doyle's pretty private. Angel suspects there are things in Doyle's past that he's not proud of.
This seems more serious than usual. Angel tries to get Doyle to tell him what's going on, but Doyle is uncharacteristically quiet, almost terse. It isn't until Angel offers him a drink and they're both sitting at the kitchen table that Doyle finally lets something slip, and Angel thinks that's more the whiskey loosening his tongue than a conscious decision.
"So what are you doing tonight?" Angel asks.
There's a pause. Doyle tips another measure of whiskey into the chipped mug that's the only one Angel thinks he hasn't used for blood -- although he could be wrong, probably is -- and drinks it. When he raises his eyes from the table to meet Angel's gaze, the fear in them lets Angel know that things are bad, really bad, much worse than he'd even expected.
"What?" Angel says. He reaches across and catches Doyle's hand -- warm, rough -- in his. Holds it. "Tell me."
"It's nothing," Doyle says.
"Don't lie to me." Angel doesn't usually speak to Doyle like that, but everything in the room seems a little too sharp-edged, and he's worried. "You wouldn't be like this if it was nothing."
Doyle is quiet but tense, looking into his glass. "I had a vision last night."
"You didn't say." Angel's voice is low. He reaches out and wraps his other hand around the bottle of whiskey, not because he wants more, and not to stop Doyle from taking more (although he knows that Doyle will think that's why,) but because the bottle is thicker, sturdier, and he doesn't want to spend the next hour pulling splinters of glass out of his flesh.
"There's nothing we can do." Doyle's not looking at him, and his fingers are lax in Angel's. "Look, let's just go to bed, all right?"
Angel studies Doyle's face for a long time. In the end, though, he just nods and stands up, tugging on Doyle's hand. "Okay. Come on."
They get undressed with the lights on, but they never touch each other, never kiss, until the room is dark.
After that, it's anyone's game.
Angel is too rough in a casual way, as if he's unaware of his physical strength, when in reality he can almost feel the soft tear in each blood vessel when his hands tighten on Doyle's arms. He can calculate almost to the hour how long it will take each bruise to fade, not that it matters because no one will be seeing them, not even him. They'll be hidden underneath Doyle's rumpled shirt, a small and temporary collection that is proof of Angel's possession.
And Doyle... Doyle doesn't complain. They're close to silent when they fuck; there aren't any pretty words, no endearments, and they don't talk afterwards. Doyle gives as good as he gets, grunting softly when Angel enters him, shoving back to meet each thrust. Angel can smell salt and sweat and the sharp, rich tang of alcohol, and they fuck for a long time, slowing down when things start to get too intense. When they finally come, Doyle first and then Angel seconds later, pulled over the edge by the slick, hot tightening of Doyle's body around his cock, Doyle is damp with perspiration, gasping breathlessly, shivering.
They turn on the tv afterwards, lying side by side, propped up on pillows. Doyle holds the remote and clicks through the channels one by one, pausing when he finds the show that Cordelia is on. "You really knew her?" Doyle asks.
"Yeah," Angel says.
"Does she look that good in person?" Doyle's head is tilted to the side a little bit, watching her, All-American, all shining eyes and straight white teeth, wide smile. She's beautiful.
"No." Angel lies and pretends to himself that he doesn't know why.
When Angel wakes up, Doyle's sitting at the end of the bed, naked. Angel can see well enough in the dark anyway -- he's not sure how well Doyle can see, because acting like the darkness hides what they are to each other is an unspoken agreement they have, and the fact that it's unspoken means, by necessity, that they don't talk about. But Angel can see Doyle fine; his pale white skin almost glows.
"What?" Angel says, aware that Doyle has said something but unsure what it was.
"We have to go," Doyle says. His voice is quiet, emotionless, in the still room, but it makes Angel want to break things.
"Go where?" he asks.
Doyle stands up. The line of his back and the curve of his ass, invisible when he's dressed but perfect when he's not, cut through the dark as he starts to pull on his pants. "Come on. The Powers That Be call and we answer."
"A vision?" Angel's already up and getting dressed; he knows that Doyle didn't just have one, so it has to be the one they were talking about before. "What is it?"
"Bunch of vamps over near the Wilshire Country Club," Doyle says. His eyes meet Angel's, and Angel can see everything. He strides across the room, his own shirt unbuttoned, Doyle's still in his hands, and grabs Doyle by the upper arms, pushes him against the wall.
"Tell me," Angel says fiercely, tightening his hands until Doyle gasps, but the other man turns his head to the side and says nothing. Angel shakes him, hard enough to hurt.
"You know that thing you're always sayin'?" Doyle asks, without looking at Angel. His accent is strong; it makes Angel think of home. "About how you never really know, until you've been tested?" Angel nods. "I think I get it now."
"Doyle, whatever it is... you have to tell me. Please." It's not a word Angel says often, and it feels strange coming from his lips, but there's something about the way Doyle is acting that tells him he's not going to get any answers by beating them out of Doyle.
"I can't," Doyle says. "It wouldn't... it wouldn't change anything."
Desperate, not knowing what else to do, Angel kisses Doyle, hard and dry and awkward.
They drive across the city to the country club, park the car, get out. Angel follows Doyle around the building, easily avoiding the security cameras by staying just out of range, and they stop near some bushes and listen. Five or six young people, laughing, shushing each other, are having what looks like a picnic on the grass. There are empty beer bottles all around them, but Angel doesn't know why the hilt of his sword is digging into his fingers until Doyle says, "Angel... they're here."
The vamps spring from nowhere; the kids, probably college students, scream and scatter, and Angel's fighting. He dusts two vamps before any of them can get their hands on the humans, then a third just as its teeth are headed for a shrieking blonde's throat. He doesn't know how many of them there are -- that will become a chant, stupid, stupid, should have known, but that will be later, when there's little else to do but think -- and he's sure there's still another behind him when he whirls and drives his sword through Doyle's stomach.
The expression on Doyle's face is one of total surprise, his mouth open in a silent 'O', hands curling in on themselves. Angel doesn't know if there are other vamps, or what happened to the kids, and right then he doesn't care, because Doyle is collapsing down onto the ground and Angel's sword is dripping with blood and Doyle is dying, right there on the cold grass.
Angel falls to his knees, presses his hands to Doyle's stomach, but he can tell there's no point. There are moments left, no more.
His vision is blurred; it's true at that moment that he can't see, even though it hasn't been before. There are too many unspoken truths between them. "Doyle... god, I didn't..."
Not much air behind Doyle's words, but Angel can hear them. "No." A tiny shake of Doyle's head, his hands groping blindly and then finding Angel's blood-slick ones. "S'posed to... happen like this."
Tears shouldn't be cold, Angel thinks. "No," he says desperately. "No, it's not. It's not supposed to happen like this, Doyle. It's not. I'm sorry. I'm so -- "
"You fight. The good fight," Doyle breathes. Angel can feel his pulse stutter and leans down, presses his lips to Doyle's, tasting blood that seems hotter than it should at that moment. His tongue tingles oddly. "I'll... keep score." And Doyle's gone; eyes open, lips parted, staring sightlessly at the sky.
The taste of Doyle's blood is still in his mouth when the first vision hits him.