A/N : Characters aren't mine, they belong to the delectable Joss Whedon. This story contains slash, but no sex. Constructive critism is loved; flames are ignored.
Sometimes, Angel allowed himself to admit that he was attracted to Doyle. Not just the physical side, although the demon inside him growled and clawed to get out when he thought of that accent and those wide green eyes, but everything. The way Doyle truly seemed to believe that Angel could achieve his redemption, the unquestioning trust, the awe in Doyle's eyes, all those secrets in Doyle's past that were just waiting to be unravelled.
He could even admit that he could allow himself to love Doyle. Once he managed to banish images of super-strength and flashing blonde hair from his eyes, Doyle was perfect. Everything he could have dreamed of, to follow his angst-ridden relationship with Buffy. Everything he didn't deserve.
He didn't deserve anything that was a good, or wholesome, or pure as Doyle. As Buffy. He was a monster. Couldn't forget that. A monster, a murderer. Soul or not, these hands had killed. These hands were stained with blood. He couldn't… Could never allow that stain to mar anyone else. Not Doyle, with his blind faith and open smile.
His apartment creaked and moaned throughout the night, as he stalked silently through dark rooms. Avoiding his bedroom, simply because Doyle was there. Sleeping off the insane amount of drink he'd consumed following their victory over the recent demon. Probably also sleeping off the headache that the vision had left him with, along with the bruises that the late demon had left on his body.
His body… Angel's mind latched onto that thought, throwing up images and fantasies of warm skin, a strong pulse and hot blood on his tongue. The oaky taste of demon, half-demon, and the pure heaven of the human inside of Doyle. Just the thought of it made the pigs-blood he'd just retrieved from the fridge seem bitter.
His demon had been restless for the past week, ever since he let his control slip marginally to deal with a couple of debt-collecting demons that had been after Doyle. He hadn't thought too much of it at the time, as he'd also been busy coping with Cordelia's newly discovered ghost-infested apartment.
He thought of it a lot now.
The demon was always there, just above the surface, but it was starting to break through now. Starting to test the barriers of his control every time he fought, or smelled blood, or looked at Doyle. Violence, food and sex, it was all the same to his demon. All an addiction.
He'd given Cordelia the week off, paid of course, and had attempted unsuccessfully to give the same to Doyle. The offer had been refused heartily, and dismissed with a smile. Stupid Doyle. Couldn't he see how Angel's control was weakened just by his presence? Angel didn't want him friends around if anything really went wrong.
He just needed some time alone. Tai-chi, meditation, contemplation; brooding. It helped. It tightened his grip. Unfortunately, Doyle had decided that brooding was bad, and wouldn't listen to Angel's weak protests.
Angel scared himself occasionally by wondering if he didn't protest more forcefully because he wanted to lose his grip. Just marginally, for a few hours. He wanted to give in and allow himself to taste Doyle properly. The smell of the man – scotch, leather, a faint undercurrent of aftershave – was intoxicating enough, but he was so desperate for more. Would it really hurt too much if he just took one little taste? Doyle wouldn't mind. He knew Doyle wouldn't mind one bit.
No, Doyle wouldn't mind. Doyle would be stupid and naïve enough to kiss him back and allow him to lose himself for one night. Imagining a night full of gasps and moans and Doyle was all very well and good, but Angel couldn't allow such a fantasy to be anything but that. A fantasy. Something to wish for and brood over in the dark.
But, no. In real life, it was too dangerous for him to give in and allow it to happen. Losing his soul was the most obvious risk; if Angelus emerged, he'd go after Doyle, Cordelia, Buffy, everyone Angel cared about. Angel didn't think that Doyle and Cordelia had it in them to kill him, if the situation called for it.
Doyle might, he thought. Doyle wouldn't do it until every other option had been tried, but Angel thought he might eventually do it. Because Doyle understood. Whether it was because of the visions, or simply because Doyle was that kind of person, he understood. He got things done.
But how much damage would be caused before Doyle got things done? Too much, and the majority of it to Doyle himself. Angel could tell how much Angelus would enjoy twisting Doyle's trust, breaking the spirit and destroying the smile that came so effortlessly.
Angelus would have a lot of fun with Doyle.
Angel couldn't let that happen. He had to be careful, so careful, but Doyle didn't seem to get it, get that his mere presence was dangerous – that being friends with Angel put you on Angelus's radar. Angel wanted to warn him, to chase the guy out of his home and our of his life, but… he didn't have that kind of strength.
He sat on one of the chairs in the kitchen, the dark a comforting blanket around him. He could see fine in the dark. His eyes bored holes into the door of his bedroom. Doyle was through there. Sleeping. In his bed. Damn, the Powers hated him, didn't they? Throwing temptation right in his path at every turn. Why didn't they just throw Buffy in there too?
Woah. Buffy. Doyle. Together. In his bed.
Good god, that was an image he could have done without. Testing his resolve. Leaving him desperate, his mouth dry, his demon restless. Whoever would have thought that redemption would be so difficult? He hadn't. He'd known it would be tough, and painful, and demon-infested, and that he might not ever make up for Angelus's sins, but that was all.
When Doyle had first appeared in his apartment, Angel hadn't thought of how difficult working through his redemption would be with him. He'd been too wrapped up in his own pain over Buffy, and the idea that he could be atoned to think of how hellish it would be for him to work alongside someone like Doyle.
Someone who was utterly beautiful, and also completely opposite from Buffy. You truly couldn't find two other people who were less alike. And yet the feelings they brought out in him were so similar; love, fear, protection, affection. He wanted to wrap both of them up somewhere safe, somewhere that nothing – not even himself – could touch or scare or hurt them. Freeze them in time so that they wouldn't die or leave him.
His footsteps were quiet, almost silent, as he moved across the apartment until he was next to the bedroom door. Stopped. Leaned against the wall. Listened to the rhythmical sounds of Doyle's breathing. Wished he was inside the room instead of outside. Wished the wall dividing them didn't exist.
Wished he could open the door. Wished he could step inside and walked over to the bed. Wished he could gently nudge Doyle awake. Wished he could straddle slender hips. Wished he could kiss away any confusion on Doyle's face. Wished he could feel a hard erection pushing against his own. Wished he could explore the lines and contours of Doyle's body in his own good time. Wished he could make Doyle moan and sweat and beg. Wished he could make stars dance in front of Doyle eyes, and teach him the true meaning of pleasure. Wished he could lay a claim on Doyle so that no one ever touched him or harmed him again.
Afterwards, Angel would want to watch Doyle sleep in his arms, Doyle's head rested on his chest.
Afterwards, Angelus would want to expose Doyle's neck then drain the life out of him.
Angel swallowed, and found himself opening the door to the bedroom before he could rein his hand in. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Dangerous. Stop it right now. Close the door, walk away, leave the apartment for the night. Too much temptation, and your resolve is too thin.
But he walked through the doorway anyway. In the dark, he eyes could still easily pick out Doyle's form. Sprawled messily on the bed, fully clothed and completely perfect. His eyes opened, and he raised his head to look at the door. "Angel, mate? That you?"
Angel nodded, but Doyle continued to look blankly at the door, fear and distrust growing. "Angel?"
"It's me." Angel said, and the sound of his voice brought a relieved smile to Doyle's face. Easy smile. Beautiful smile.
"Christ, man, you scared the hell outta me." Angel stepped forwards and sat on the edge of the bed, a slight dip forming under his weight. "What time is it? I'm still wrecked."
"You can still sleep. It's not morning yet."
Doyle nodded, and lay back down with a slightly bemused expression on his face. Angel supposed he owed Doyle an explanation for the random intrusion, but didn't offer one. He wasn't up to thinking up a convincing lie.
He lay down beside Doyle, kicking off his shoes first. Watched Doyle's reaction to the movement; bewildered at first, but then quietly accepting. No question asked. No answers needed. He shuffled closer until he could feel Doyle's warm breath rushing over him, and wondered whether it would be a bad idea to reach out and touch Doyle. Just once. Just softly.
The choice was taken away from him when Doyle rolled onto his side, pressing their bodies close against each other. Angel frowned and looked down; Doyle's eyes were closed, but he was awake. Just. Floating in and out of consciousness. Dozing.
Angel tensed, wondering what he was expected to do. What he could trust himself to do. Doyle sighed, half-asleep, and moved his head to rest on Angel's shoulder. "Stop acting like a berk and just get some sleep, y'stupid bastard," His slurred voice instructed.
Angel smiled and curled a cautious arm around Doyle's warm form. He closed his eyes on the darkness around him. Yeah, sleeping sounded good right about now.