*** CHAPTER 4 ***

His eyes open to a room he doesn't recognize. Everything around him is blurry, out of focus and much brighter than it should be under normal conditions. He can't remember where he was before or why he's here now. All he knows for certain is that he is hot and sweaty and aching all over. More than aching, throbbing, burning… oh God, the pain!

He groans audibly. What had he done to himself to feel like this?

"It's alright, Doyle. You're gonna be fine." He recognizes the sweet, female voice speaking from somewhere over his head. He slowly angles his head in its direction and tries to focus on the face that hovers there. He knows her. Of course, he knows her… but she looks so different.

"Cordelia?" He rasps. It hurts to use his throat.

She beams down at him, with that familiar smile that could light up a room, even one as dark as this one. As he manages to lock on to her dark eyes she simply says, "Hi."

"Everything hurts," he grunts, squinting his eyes at the dull light that feels like it scalds his eyeballs.

"I know." She says softly. "Don't try and move too much."

"You're hair," he says, reopening his eyes and trying to readjust his aching limbs. "It's different."

Apparently, this comment makes her particularly happy, because her smile widens as she reaches up to touch her short locks. "Yeah, it is. You noticed. That's good."

"Course I noticed." He says, a little offended that she'd think he wouldn't. He had always been very observant when it came to her. He tries to sit up, but quickly realizes that is an impossible feat. He makes it about a centimeter before crashing back into the pillow underneath his head. "Gah… "

"Don't try to get up." That voice wasn't hers, but it is recognizable. And comforting to hear.

"Angel." It still hurts to talk, but he forces out a few more syllables, "What the hell happened to me, man?"

Angel comes into focus as he walks closer to where Cordelia is standing over his bedside. It's hard to read what it is he sees on his two friends' faces, not to mention the fact that it's hard for him to keep his eyes focused on them for too long. He is more than a little tempted to morph into his demon form to try and temper the pain, but he holds out for Cordelia's sake as much as his own.

"It's a long story." Angel says, looking like he is reluctant to say more.

"You died," blurts Cordelia.

"I guess not that long." Angel mumbles.

Doyle takes in their words and tries to comprehend exactly what that means. He died? He certainly doesn't feel dead. Death really shouldn't be this painful.

"But you're not dead anymore." Cordelia confirms. "We brought you back."

"How did I die?" Doyle croaks in disbelief. He is not liking the sound of this. Being dead had definitely not been on his to-do list.

"You don't remember?" Cordelia asks. He can see the concern in her eyes, which is new and different for her. He can't recall ever seeing her that worried about him in all the time he's known her.

"It was the beacon. You dismantled it to save the Lister demons and it… killed you."

Angel's words spark a memory that Doyle didn't even know he had. Hazy images of slugging Angel, kissing Cordelia, leaping to a fiery, face-melting death. Remembering it seems to amplify the feeling of fire against his skin. He wishes he could pass out again and get some relief from the agony. He manages to choke out the first thing on his mind, "Pretty stupid move."

"Yeah, but also pretty heroic." Cordelia says, giving him an admiring smile. Again, something he was not used to seeing from her.

All this talking has made him breathless. He wants to ask more questions, but he finds himself choking instead. Cordelia helps him drink some water, but like everything else, it burns and chafes its way down his esophagus.

After a few minutes he manages to rasp out another question, "How long…was I gone?"

"Two years. Two Months. Nineteen Days." Angel replies evenly.

That is a blow. He lets a wave of nausea flow over him as he continues to try and make sense of the insane things he is hearing. At the moment, the pain is making him none too pleased to be living and breathing, but he doesn't have the energy to try and articulate that.

Cordelia's lovely face floats back into focus, along with the feeling of something soft and cool pressed against his head. For a brief moment he feels the pain subside just a bit. "You're back with us now, Doyle."

He is surprised once again by her compassion and sweetness and too foggy-headed to decipher what it means or if it even makes sense. Although, he is starting to think this death thing sounds a bit familiar, it still isn't a clear picture. There are a lot of holes to fill. One final question is pushed through his enflamed vocal chords, "You brought me back?"

Her eyes are wide and bright as she starts to go into soft focus, "I did."

He registers her response before letting himself slip back into the safety and painlessness of sleep.

"It's not good, Cordelia."

Cordelia leans in the open doorway of Doyle's room. She and Angel had stepped into the hallway where they could talk freely without disturbing Doyle's much-needed rest, but neither one of them wanted to go further than necessary. If he should wake up again, they wanted him to see the reassuring faces of his two best, and arguably only, friends.

"What exactly did she tell you?" Cordelia asks, trying to make sense of the issue Angel was apparently trying to skirt around.

It made sense that he'd call Buffy for advice in this situation—not that he needed an excuse to call Buffy. But, as someone who had recently been brought back from the great beyond, she could have a lot of useful information on what Doyle would be going through and more importantly, how best they could help him through it.

"Coming back, being ripped out of heaven… she didn't ask for it. She didn't want it."

Cordelia chews her lip, wishing that they had stopped to think about this before bringing Doyle back. No, scratch that, the selfish part of her -though not as obvious as it once was- told her that she would've brought him back anyway. Not unless she knew for certain that he didn't want to come. And, even then, she would've liked the opportunity to convince him otherwise.

"He doesn't even remember dying, Angel. Maybe he won't remember what came after." She points out.

"I think things will probably come back to him over time."

"Okay, but this is you and me. People he… cares about. You don't think he's happy to see us?"

Angel shifts his weight, looking up at the light fixture above his head. It's hard to meet Cordelia's eyes right now. Buffy had told him a lot of things; not all of them she wanted him to share. And none of it was easy for him to hear. It wouldn't be any easier for Cordelia to hear as it pertained to Doyle. "That might not be enough. In fact, it might make it worse."

"What does that mean?"

"She resents them, Cordelia. Buffy resents her friends for bringing her back. Willow, Xander. Even though she loves them, she blames them."

"Oh." Cordelia takes that in, staring down at her feet.

"She's trying, but it's hard for her to reconnect with… anyone. There's a numbness she can't get rid of."

Cordelia absorbs his words, nodding slowly and finally raises her head to meet his gaze. "Do you think we made a mistake? That I made a mistake?"

Angel turns his head to see Doyle sleeping in the background. He doesn't think it is a mistake to have his best friend back. He only hopes Doyle doesn't disagree.

"If you hadn't done it... I would have."

Cordelia passes a cold glass of water to Doyle's outstretched hand, which she notices is trembling slightly. As he takes the glass from her he almost drops it, but catches himself and successfully raises it to his mouth without any further assistance.

After over three days, his fever had finally broken and he had awoken with a clearer sense of his surroundings. He hadn't said all that much, aside from clarifying that he remembered what they told him before—he had been dead, and now he wasn't. Aside from that he had listened while Angel and Cordelia explained that the hotel room he lay in is part of Angel Investigations' base of operations. And that right downstairs the other members of the team are taking care of business and very eager to meet him, whenever he feels up to it.

He removes the glass from his lips. His voice is still raspier than normal. "I know it's fascinatin' watching me drink water, but y'think you could ease up on the staring, darlin'? Making me feel self-conscious-like."

Cordelia drops her eyes in embarrassment, "Sorry."

She had been staring. Ever since she saw him lying there on the floor of the lobby, every move he made, or didn't make, was fascinating to her. But, she doesn't want to make him feel like an animal in a zoo.

"I get it. Not every day you have a dead guy sitting in front of ya." He tilts his head, thinking about what he had just said, "Actually, it's probably most days. I hope Angel gives you the weekends off at least?"

She wants to ask what it was like to be dead, but in light of the things Buffy had told Angel, she figures it might be better not to focus on what happened between his death and resurrection. The best thing she can do for him is to make sure he knows how glad she is to have him back—how much he means to her.

"I missed you." She says, capturing him in her intense gaze once more. She knows she's not supposed to stare, but she decides that it's necessary for him to see how sincere she is. She raises her eyes back to where he is propped up in the bed, "You have no idea how much."

He doesn't say anything at first, but she can see that her words have an effect him. "If you're trying to make me feel better about the whole being dead thing… well, I should tell ya that it's working."

He smiles, but it quickly turns into a grimace. She leans forward in concern, "Are you okay?"

He shakes it off, but she can see that his body is still very tense. "Ah, nothin' a good single-malt won't fix." She watches as he adjusts himself in the bed, struggling to sit up a little straighter.

"Maybe you should lie back down?"

"I've had enough lying down. I need to get out of this bed." He fingers his red button-down shirt with disgust. "And, not to scandalize you or anything, but I really need to get out of these clothes. Bad enough that I died in 'em, now I sweat through 'em for days."

He slowly swings his legs over to the side of the bed, and pushes off his arms, not quite making it to a standing position before crashing back down heavily.

"Doyle, take it slow." Angel says as he enters the front door. As luck would have it, he is carrying a change of clothes for Doyle in a bundle under his arm. They are not actually Doyle's clothes, seeing as he has none. Angel places them near the bathroom door and crosses toward the bed.

"Slow is the only way I can take it." Doyle replies, closing his eyes and trying to catch his breath. "But trust me when I say, it is imperative that I get to a shower."

Cordelia had been hovering near the edge of the bed, ready to catch him, if need be. As Angel approaches, she steps back a little, hoping that he could convince Doyle not to over do it.

"Let me help you." Angel says, reaching out a hand to his friend.

Doyle waves it away, "Just give me a minute. Not quite ready to have my manliness called into question."

Angel turns and looks toward Cordelia, giving her a subtle nod toward the front door. She doesn't want to leave, but knows that Angel's right. Regardless of how comfortable she feels being close to Doyle after three days of nursing him back to health, there were certain things she had left in Angel's hands, and Doyle would probably prefer that to remain the case.

"Are you hungry?" She asks brightly, moving slowly toward the foot of the bed. "Why don't I go get you some food?"

"I wasn't kidding about the single-malt." Doyle replied, "But if you wanna grab a burger and fries with that, I'll take it."

She smiles reassuringly, "I won't be long." With that she left his sight for the first time since he'd come back to her.

Once Cordelia had closed the door behind her, Angel turns back toward Doyle, offering his hand once more.

"Nah, I really do need a minute. I appreciate you sending her away, though. All her hovering is making me anxious."

Angel takes a seat beside the bed, "She missed you. And she wants to help you get better."

"She did mention that. The missing me bit." Doyle shakes his head in mild disbelief and lifts his hand to his temple, rubbing it tentatively. "It's a real trip, man. I went to sleep and woke up in some bizarro-world where Cordelia actually likes me."

Angel cracks a smile, sitting back in his chair. "She liked you before."

"She liked giving me a hard time before." Doyle gives Angel a look that says he knows Doyle's right.

"Is that what it was like?" Angel asks, steering toward the subject he is most curious about. "Like you were asleep?"

Doyle shrugs, lifting the glass of water from the bedside table and taking a large gulp. His hand still trembles, but he manages. He puts the glass back down and slowly starts unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a sweat-stained off-white tank top beneath. "Something like that. I don't really remember, so I guess that's like sleeping, yeah?"

Angel ponders that for a moment, "You remember what came before?"

Doyle visibly grimaces as he removes the red shirt and tosses it beside him on the bed. "The beacon. Yeah, I remember." He meets Angel's eyes to punctuate his next words, "Hurt like hell."

"You saved everyone. You saved me."

"If you're about to thank me, please don't." Doyle says, cutting short Angel's words of gratitude. "You know better than anyone why I did what I did. Let's just call it even, yeah?"

Angel nods in agreement. Things weren't "even," but having Doyle back meant that someday they might be.

Doyle leans forward, preparing himself to try and stand again. Angel rises, offering his hand for a third time. Doyle looks at it hesitantly and then morphs into demon form, "You mind if I just…?" He motions to his altered appearance.

"You know that I don't."

With his demon strength, Doyle is able to stand and walk unaided. He pauses at the window, peaking underneath the curtain, before turning toward the bathroom. "No offense, man, but I think can take it from here."