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| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: "A Little Death" Author: MonaRamsey Pairing: Angel/Doyle Rating: R Setting: AtS S1 A/N: Second story in the "Alternative Beginnings" series (including "Could I Be Your Girl" and "Wet"). Can also be read as a stand-alone. the rope that's wrapped around me is cutting through my skin and the doubts that have surrounded me are finding their way in I keep it close to me like a holy man prays in my desperate hour it's better, better that way ********** Doyle's hand didn't connect with the light switch on the first swipe, and he didn't even attempt a second. It was dark in the apartment, somewhere in the middle of the night/early morning before dawn, and he didn't need to see, nor did he particularly want to. Avoidance of the junk lying on the apartment floor made navigation all the more fun, especially as limited as his vertical abilities were, but it also meant that if he fell, chances are he would land on something to break his fall. "Where have you been?" The unexpected and disembodied voice was right in front of him, close enough to be felt. Doyle nearly jumped out of his skin. Angel hit the lights. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph! You trying to give me a heart attack, or something?" "Something," Angel answered, grimly, flexing his jaw. "I was worried about you. It's been a week since you've been around the office." "I'm touched by your concern," Doyle said, and slapped the vampire gently in the general vicinity of his back. "I'm also a big boy, and I've been taking care of myself for years, now." "Obviously," Angel said, dryly. "But that still doesn't answer my question; you *were* coming in every day, and then all of a sudden you stopped. Where have you been?" "The track, mostly," Doyle said, managing something close to a smile. He wove his way to the couch, landing on three days worth of newspapers and half an anchovy pizza. "I might have stopped somewhere for some libation along the way, as well. You need something?" "I thought you were going to keep me informed." "Don't worry - I haven't been holding out on you. I just haven't had a vision lately - and to be honest, I've been glad for the rest from the migraines." Angel's expression didn't change, and Doyle's voice became just slightly defensive, as if his honesty was being challenged by Angel's silence. "I don't control them, you know. They come and go as they please, with very little intervention on my part. As soon as I have one, you'll be the first to know." His Boy Scout salute was short a finger, but it was the thought that counted, anyway. "Cordelia was wondering if maybe you'd skipped out on us." "Oh, yeah?" A wry smile crossed Doyle's pale face. "Tell her I'm still here. For the moment, anyway." "And what is that supposed to mean? You've got somewhere else to be than Los Angeles?" Angel's eyes narrowed. "Has someone given you a better offer?" "Than what? Sidekick to a superhero?" "That's not what you are." "Right." With no small amount of difficulty, Doyle got to his feet, ignoring the hand that Angel automatically offered to him, and made his way to the closet. "Look," he said, as he opened the door, "no capes, no tights, no teenaged 'wards' to partner up with. I'm not the superhero, Angel, *you* are. I'm just the messenger, and *that* isn't even a voluntary position. If something happened to me, don't you think that The Powers That Be would pluck some other poor schmuck's name out of a hat and send *him* your way? In a blind second, they would." "Nothing's going to happen to you." "From your lips, Angel, from your lips." A heavy yawn split Doyle's face. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I feel the need for some sleep." He brushed past Angel again, on his way to the bed. Angel reached out and touched Doyle's neck, causing the half demon to stop dead in his tracks. "You're bleeding," he said, running his fingers along the abrasion. "Nah," Doyle said, off-the-cuff, "it's just a bruise." "A bruise." Angel waited a beat, realization stirring something familiar inside of him. "On your neck," he added, dumbly, warmth beginning to spread through his body - heat coupled with pain. Doyle flashed a small, tight little smile, fraught with recent memories. "Yeah." "Run into a door?" The smile didn't waver. "Something like that." ********** so I'll come by and see you again I'll be such a very good friend have mercy on my soul I will never let you know where my mind has been ********** Doyle lay on the bed, on top of the wrinkled blankets, with all of his clothing on - even the leather jacket and shoes - and stared up at the ceiling. The apartment was still; if he'd had his eyes closed, he might have been able to pretend that he was there alone. Maybe he'd even have been able to sleep. Angel was watching him from the couch, hands tucked in tight fists in the pockets of his long coat. He'd stood in the middle of the apartment for more than twenty minutes before sitting down, maybe waiting for Doyle to say something. maybe trying to figure out what to say himself - something that might make this a little better. He couldn't speak, though; his eyes sliced across the apartment, fixated on the darkening bruise on Doyle's neck, and he forced himself not to spew out the anger that weighed heavy on his tongue. Finally, he switched off the light and sat down. They were both waiting, in the silence. This thing between them had been there from the first moment that Doyle appeared in Angel's apartment. There was no question but that he would stay, and it had nothing to do with visions or vengeance or atonement. It was far easier than that, and Angel knew it even as he listened to the ridiculous litany of his life told in Doyle's short, clipped, deeply sarcastic tones. It should have been painful for him to listen to such a Reader's Digest version of his past mistakes, but it wasn't. Something about Doyle made Angel's palms itch, and his teeth hurt; the same something sparked an ache inside of Doyle that he'd spent the better part of the last five days trying to burn out. Even the beautiful and willing young man he'd fucked in a cheap motel room that afternoon hadn't been able to do that, although he'd hoped that maybe it would have taken even the barest edge of his desire away. It hadn't; his body ached just the same way as before, maybe even a little *more* keenly because of the recent sex, and now Angel was here, *looking* at him. Doyle stretched on the bed, and turned on his side, consciously flexing his neck and propping his head under one arm. The bruise was easier to see that way. He heard Angel shift on the couch, heard his fingers dig into the cushions, knuckles popping one by one. It was obvious to him that Angel didn't trust himself to do something; not even this delicate tease - not even the faint smell of sex that lingered on Doyle's body - would be enough to force his hand. Doyle toed off his shoes and kicked them from the bed to the floor. He sat up and shed his jacket, tossing it over the side of the bed, too. Before he was able to lift the hem of his shirt up over his head, Angel was sitting on the edge of the bed and had his wrists in a tight grip that would show bruises if the morning ever came. "I thought you'd never come," Doyle said, and leaned back his head. Angel's teeth bit into his neck as his eyes closed, and Doyle smiled. ********** I've crept into your temple I have slept upon your pew I've dreamed of the divinity inside and out of you I want it more than truth I can taste it on my breath I would give my life just for a little, a little death ********** They wrestled on the bed, at least nominally, until Doyle 'allowed' Angel to overpower him and press him into the mattress. Angel was all teeth and nails and hands, combining sharp edges and strength and pain that seemed to bleed through his skin and burn Doyle in his wake, and he un-gently undressed both of them, ripping fabric and popping buttons impatiently. After the first, fake bite - just a sucking tease of his real power, leaving a slightly deeper bruise on Doyle's neck - he continued to nibble and taste but didn't break the skin. Doyle bit his lips to swallow his pleas for that sort of final connection, and instead offered the rest of his insatiable body as a sacrifice. They kissed and even those kisses weren't real; they were just for show, because that was what lovers did. Neither of them really wanted that, though - they were trying their own patience, testing boundaries of desire and propriety. Angel pressed himself against Doyle's body like he was seeing if perhaps the demon might break under this onslaught of lust, and Doyle knew suddenly that there had always been a barrier, a boundary, a limitation that Angel would not cross with his other lovers. He saw that question in the vampire's dark eyes, and he answered the only way that he knew how: He gave up everything. Angel's hands gripped him hard enough to leave bruises as he turned Doyle by the hips over onto his stomach and then dragged him up onto his knees. He sucked at hair and neck and shoulders and corded muscle, his hands blindly finding Doyle's cock as he pressed his own body into the one underneath him, too incoherent with need to stop for even a moment and find his bearings. Finally, Doyle reached behind, spread himself wide open, and Angel thrust home, in one stroke. Doyle's entire back spasmed as he took Angel inside of himself, painfully, truly. It hurt so much that he wondered if he'd ever be able to let go. And then Angel was bent over behind him, thrusting and biting and stroking him all at once, and everything gained a slightly fuzzy edge as Doyle's senses overloaded. It was all right as long as he didn't have to *see* him, or hear him, or think about it; he wanted to ask Angel to stop talking - stop saying his name in *that* way, that way that seemed evocation and blessing and as if he was inventing the word anew. No one had ever said his name like that. And there was the hand on his cock, stroking him in time with the thrusts that came and didn't stop, and hurt and didn't hurt. Doyle knew he would be covered with bruises everywhere, when this was finished; he knew that he would walk pained and broken for a long while, and that his body would hold the memories of this night for a very long time, and still he wanted it. He started to say Angel's name, too, answering his own, first whispering it into the pillow that was soaked with someone's tears, then calling it out, louder and louder, until there was a cadence of thrust and release, call and answer. They were both hoarse when Angel finally gripped Doyle so tight he nearly crushed several ribs, and exploded inside of him. Doyle, who had preceded him to a climax by minutes, collapsed on the bed, Angel's weight on top of him, pressing the oxygen and life out of his body, Angel's name still on his lips. ********** so I'll come by and see you again I'll be just a very good friend I will not look upon your face I will not touch upon your grace your ecclesiastic skin ********** "Who was he?" "I don't know. Some guy in a bar who didn't ask any difficult questions. A warm body," Doyle added, ironically. He shifted onto his side, and he heard keenly the gasp as Angel saw the bruises that ran the length of his back. He flinched only as the first was gently probed, then relaxed into Angel's touch. "Why did you let him do this to you?" Angel murmured, and pressed his lips to one jagged bruise after another. "You're kidding me, right?" Doyle asked, over his shoulder. "You think a *mortal* had the strength to do that?" He sat up, legs over the edge of the bed, bringing most of the sheet with him, wincing as both the pain in his limbs registered and the sight of Angel's body was bared to him for the first time in the half-light. There was a bottle on the floor, capped and still mostly full. The whisky burned and it felt like he was swallowing fire. "What exactly do you think you've been doing the last couple of hours?" "I didn't - " "Yeah, you did." There was a glittering hardness in Angel's eyes when Doyle turned his head. "Look, it's okay. I wasn't exactly fighting you off, was I?" Angel cautiously and deliberately got up from the bed and started to pull on his clothes. "Maybe you should have." "Fuck you," Doyle spat. "You want to feel guilty about this? Well, too fucking bad. It's *done*, now, and I'll be damned if I'll watch you play martyr for wanting to hurt someone." "I didn't want to hurt you." "You could have fooled me. And you know what's even worse? *I* wanted it. I *still* want it. So if you're the martyr in this relationship, what the fuck does that make *me*?" Doyle set the bottle down on the corner of the bedside table, and watched it fall to the floor with a crash, without making a move to catch it. Amber liquid spilled out over the floor, filling the room with the smell of alcohol to go along with the scent of mildew and the overpowering heat of sex. "I didn't want to hurt you," Angel said, again. "So what did you want from me, then? Love?" Doyle started to laugh. "Go away, Angel. I'm tired, and I need some sleep." He lay back down on the bed, and closed his eyes. Morning sunlight streamed from the edge of the blinds, striking his face, and he put up a hand to shield his skin. It took him more than a minute to clue in, and three seconds after that it open his eyes again. "Shit." Angel was dressed. "What?" Doyle pulled up the blinds, and Angel reacted strongly to the light, flinching away from it, even though the rays were far from where he stood. "It's morning." Angel stared at the window, incomprehensibly. "I'll go under." "What, burrow under the ground? Nice trick, if you can do it." "I'll find a way." "And get yourself killed? No, thank you. I don't need another debt on my conscience." "I didn't think you had one." "And what exactly do you know about me, Angel? Jesus," Doyle laughed. "Angel. You should have stayed up there, you know." "What are you talking about?" "Up there," Doyle gestured vaguely with his hands, over his head. "Where I couldn't touch you. Safely away from the likes of Allan Francis Doyle." "Allan Francis." Angel swallowed. "That's your name." Doyle looked at him, and then looked away. "Yeah," he said. "That's my name." ********** I'll come by and see you again I'll have to be a very good friend if I whisper they will know I'll just turn around and go you will never know my sin ********** Angel was sitting on the couch, staring at the sunlight that was still creeping around the edges of the blind, when Doyle emerged from the bathroom. He walked through the apartment nude, fully aware of the pained look on Angel's face when he saw him and quickly looked away. Doyle searched through messy piles for some clean-ish clothing as he rubbed a towel over his hair, leaving it stuck in a hundred different directions. "There's still some hot water," he said, in Angel's general direction. There was no answer. "There would have been more if you'd shared. Of course," he mused, absent-mindedly, "we probably would have been in there longer, if we were together." "Stop it," Angel said. "Stop what?" "Stop pretending this is okay." Angel looked at him evenly, letting his eyes drop to the bruises that circled Doyle's wrists, and mottled his thighs. "So who's pretending?" "I *hurt* you." "Do you think you're the first?" Doyle asked, softly. "That doesn't matter." "You're right. It doesn't. Whether or not I've had rough sex with another guy or a hundred guys or a sea otter doesn't have anything to do with what we just did. The only thing that *does* matter is that you're sitting there having regrets about touching me. And if you think that *these*," Doyle held up the bruises on his arms so that Angel could see them even more clearly, "hurt more than *that* does, you're even more fucked in the head than I am." "That could very well be." "What do I have to do to convince you that I don't care about the bruises?" "What do *I* have to do to convince you that I *do* care?" Angel countered. Doyle shook his head, and chuckled. "Leave it to the fates to assign me to the only vampire in creation with a soul. Somebody up there is laughing his ass off." "You knew what I was when you stepped into my apartment," Angel said. "So I did." "And you knew that this would happen from that moment, too." It was half statement, half accusation. "So did you," Doyle pointed out. "I knew it, and I still couldn't control myself." "This time. Look," Doyle said, "I'm not exactly a ninety-eight pound weakling. I may not look like much, but I'm a half-demon, and we also have reserves of strength. Maybe not vampiric ones, but still." "And what? Practice makes perfect?" "That's what they always told me." "Hasn't it ever occurred to you that it's The Powers That Be that make up all of those stupid sayings?" Doyle laughed. "T'would serve me right, wouldn't it?" He cocked his head to one side. "Are you going to take those clothes off and come to bed, or am I going to have to take them off of you?" "You think you could fight me off, if you really wanted to?" "Uh-huh." Angel looked skeptical. "The optimal phrase being 'wanted to'." "Ah." "I'm not making any promises regarding my want." Angel stood up; there was still fear flickering in his eyes, but desire was beginning to overcome that fear. Doyle leaned back on the bed, on his elbows, and watched Angel slowly remove his coat. "I thought you'd never come," he said, softly. ********** angels never came down there's no one here they want to hang around but if they knew, if they knew you at all then one by one the angels, angels would fall The End Feedback |