*** CHAPTER 14 ***

Angel knows the moment Doyle finally stumbles back into the Hyperion. Granted, he'd spent every waking moment, and many of his non-waking moments, wondering where Doyle had gone and when he'd return. Angel had searched all of the recent places they'd gone together, as well as some of the old haunts Doyle had shown him back in the day. No one had seen Doyle in the past few days. Some hadn't even known he was alive.

As Angel can now see, he is alive, but he does not look particularly well, as evidenced by his slow procession up the stairs to his room. And he may be more unwell after Angel gets through with him, based on the things Angel is currently picking up with his heightened senses.

As Doyle heads down the corridor to his room, Angel stalks him silently from the shadows. Doyle stops walking, clearly sensing Angel behind him. An impressive feat considering that Doyle is more than half in the bag, is not in his demon form, and Angel is extraordinarily stealthy to begin with. Doyle says nothing; standing with his head bowed, wavering slightly on his feet. "Shoulda' known you'd be watchin' for me."

"Anything you want to talk about?" Angel asks, stepping into the light. Although it is phrased as a question, it is not, in fact, a question.

"Not particularly." Doyle replies, back turned, head still directed toward the carpet.

"Where have you been?" Angel tries again, adding an edge of warning to his voice, but maintaining his distance.

"You and I both know where I've been." Doyle finally raises his head and turns his body slightly so the light overhead reveals his disheveled hair, bloodshot eyes and heavy bags. The suit he's been wearing for days is filthy and wrinkled. "You can smell 'em all over me, yeah? I'll give ya' one guess where a fella' might find that many willing female companions."

Angel winces at Doyle's callous admission. Of course, Angel can smell the other women all over Doyle. Most of them weren't even human, as far as he could tell. But the questions remain—Why would he do that to Cordelia? Why would he do it at all? And how could he waltz back into the hotel expecting that Angel wouldn't call him out on it?

Angel sighs heavily, disappointment etched into his face. "Why?"

"Cordelia didn't tell ya what happened?" Doyle asks, swaying slightly.

"She doesn't remember." Angel says dangerously. He watches Doyle's face for signs of what he might think of that information, but all Angel sees is a very drunk man, fighting to stay on his feet.

"That's just as well." Doyle slurs, scratching at the stubble that covers his jawline.

"You were cured? Is that what happened?" Angel says the words tightly, trying to control his temper. The thought of Cordelia's excited smile as Lorne spoke of her possible future with Doyle causes Angel's fists to clench involuntarily. The man currently standing before him is far from worthy of that possible future or any other as it pertained to her. Angel feels heartbreak on her behalf, not to mention his own. He had been more than willing to accept that she wanted to be with Doyle, when he had assumed Doyle would do right by her. Now everything appeared to be very, very wrong.

Doyle blinks a few times at Angel as if confused by his last statement. The alcohol emanates from his pores, wafting down the hallway. He finally slurs with a vaguely bitter smile. "Looks like." He gives a clumsy little bow that nearly causes him to topple over. "So, I think it's time for me to go."

"I don't think you're going very far." Angel snorts. "You can barely stand."

Doyle hiccups, which causes him to morph into his demon form. "I mean…" Hiccup. Human. "I'm leaving." Hiccup. Demon. "For good." Hiccup. Human.

"You don't mean that." Angel replies.

"Ah…" Hiccup. Demon. "…but I do." Hiccup. Human.

Angel shakes his head in disgust. "There's no point talking to you right now. Sleep it off, Doyle."

Doyle closes his eyes, leaning his head back on the wall behind him. "I have to get away from Cor-" Hiccup. Demon. "—delia."

That's the final straw. Angel doesn't want to hit Doyle, but the temptation is getting to be a little overwhelming. He grits out his next words, "Don't say things you're going to regret."

Doyle, still leaning against the wall, rolls his head back and forth. When he reopens his red demon eyes, they finally appear somewhat lucid. They land squarely on Angel. "You don't understand, Angel, man…"

"I understand." Angel simmers. "You're not the man you used to be."

"I am the same man." Doyle argues, but without much conviction. And it sounds even harder to believe coming from the mouth of the demon.

"Well, that's real nice, Doyle." Angel says, lacing his voice with sarcasm. "You got what you needed from her and now you're taking off. I guess I never knew you were such a class act."

It's harder for Angel to read Doyle's demon face than it is to read his human face, but he no longer appears to be drunk. Angel suspects that his demon form sobered him up considerably. Doyle pulls himself away from the wall and stands upright without a hint of instability. "Just what is it you think I did to her, exactly?" He asks defensively.

"I don't know." Angel bites out, barely containing his fury. "Did you use a spell on her to cure yourself? Or was that just a happy accident?"

Angel sees a flash of hurt in Doyle's demon eyes. He morphs back into his human face, which more readily shows how wounded he is by Angel's accusations. "That's what you think of me now?"

Seeing the injured look on Doyle's face makes Angel back track a little. Why had he been so sure Doyle was responsible for Cordelia's memory loss and the spell that caused it? He hadn't wanted to believe it initially, but the more time that had gone by, the more he'd convinced himself that Doyle was to blame. And seeing him tonight, drunk and disorderly, stinking of other women, it all seemed to fit. Except Doyle's reaction certainly does not fit. Not unless he's gotten a whole lot better at playing poker.

"Tell me what happened." Angel insists, bringing his anger back down to below-boiling point.

"Does she think I'm a bad guy, too?" Doyle asks sadly, looking every bit the kicked puppy.

"I don't…" Angel realizes that he can't make up for his accusations, and he's still on the fence as to whether or not he should even try to make up for them. For now, the damage has been done. He settles for answering Doyle's question truthfully. "She's worried about you. As usual."

Doyle sniffs, staring down at his shoes. "Do me one favor, yeah? Don't tell her I came back here." There's a touch of desperation in his voice, laced with defeat.

As Doyle turns and proceeds down the hallway to his door, Angel doesn't move a muscle. "Why did you come back? You have nothing here. You could've just left."

Doyle pauses with his hand on his doorknob and gives Angel one final, wounded look, "Asking myself that same question right about now." With that, he enters his room, closing the door behind him and leaving Angel wishing he could re-do that entire conversation and end it with the part where he convinces Doyle to stay.

It's barely dawn. Doyle is dressed in a black button down shirt, baggy grey slacks and his brown leather jacket. Aside from the Claddagh ring that adorns his left middle finger, and a pillowcase stuffed full of clothes he recently bought at a thrift shop, he has no other possessions in the world. Out of the items he currently carries, only the jacket, the ring and the shoes are things he owned before he died. And he'd already spent every dime he'd earned working for Angel Investigations. Not that it matters to him. He had nothing before, he has even less now. Soon he won't even have his friends.

He assumes no one else is awake, which is why it's safe to move unhidden throughout the hotel. Even Angel must have gone to bed by now. Doyle hadn't bothered with sleep, even though it was likely his last chance to sleep in a comfortable place for the foreseeable future. Who knew where he'd end up next. His plan was to get as far from L.A. as half-humanly possible. And yet, his conviction to execute such plan evaporates by the second.

He is stalling. He knows he's stalling. He had lived a lonely, solitary life once before. It had almost ended badly for him on more than one occasion. It wasn't something he thought he'd willingly go back to, not after meeting Angel and Cordelia; not after becoming part of something bigger than himself. He hadn't come back to the Hyperion for a pillowcase full of recent thrift store acquisitions, but because he wanted a reason to stay. He wanted Angel to give him a reason.

Instead, Angel had reminded him why he needs to leave.

The double-edged sword that is the new, ready-to-be-loved Cordelia. If only he could go back to the way things were before, when he had thought he couldn't touch her. He had kept her at a distance and that had kept her safe. Now that they'd gotten closer, it would be nearly impossible to go back to that. Cordelia was no longer oblivious to his feelings, she would see right through any lies to the contrary. And she would persist. She would wear him down. Truth is, he doesn't trust himself to stay away from her, not if she is right there in front of him, wanting him. Not if she looks at him the way she did the other night.

He is strong, but not that strong.

As Doyle crosses the dimly lit lobby, he notices a light on in Wesley's office. Apparently, there is someone awake at this hour. As easy as it would be to slip out into the dewy morning and never look back, Doyle can't help but wonder if Wes can help him. Or, if he even would consider doing so. They aren't close; Doyle barely knows the man. Out of everyone in the hotel, he's spoken to Wesley the least and has always sensed an underlying current of mistrust. But, it is an option that Doyle hadn't previously considered, and he currently has no other ones. Wesley has been chained to his books since Doyle was first brought back; a betting man would put money on the fact that Wes has some information about Doyle that Doyle himself does not. And Doyle has always been a betting man.

Doyle approaches the office cautiously, and finds Wes asleep at his desk. His head resting on a large open book, piles of even larger, older looking books barricading him behind the desk. Doyle contemplates turning around and leaving, but stumbles over the foot of a chair, which successfully wakes Wesley with a jolt.

"Don't!" He yells, sitting up stock straight in his chair.

"Sorry, man." Doyle says, retreating to the doorway. "Didn't mean to give you a start."

"Oh, Doyle." Wes rubs his eyes beneath his glasses, slowly getting his bearings. "It's not you… I was…"

"Having a nightmare?" Doyle finishes. "Yeah, never woulda guessed."

"Recurring, in fact. I've had that one more times than I can count." Wesley stretches his arms and cracks his neck, setting himself more comfortably in his chair. Suddenly, he furrows his brow, giving Doyle a suspicious look. "You're back?"

"Uh… not really." Doyle replies, lifting the pillowcase full of his clothes. "On my way out."

Wesley looks him over. "Oh, I see."

"Angel knows." Doyle confirms, leaning in the doorjamb.

"And Cordelia?" Wes asks uncertainly.

"She doesn't." Doyle admits. Wes studies him for a moment, apparently contemplating a number of questions. Doyle cuts to the chase before he can bother. "I know I'm coming off like a real cad here, but I promise ya I didn't harm a hair on Cordy's head. And I'm leavin' so that I never do."

"Alright." Wes replies, sitting back in his chair. "But, if you don't mind my asking, why do you feel that's necessary?"

"I'm trying to figure that out myself. Those books of yours have a lot to say about me, yeah?" Doyle says pointing to the mounds of text in front of Wes.

Wes stands, moving out from behind his desk. "Not a lot, but some."

Doyle observes Wes closely. The man has an obvious tell. If they were playing cards, Doyle would've cleaned up big time. As it happens, interpreting prophecies is a different game altogether and from what Doyle can tell, he was just dealt the worst hand possible. "That bad, huh?"

Wes sits on the edge of his desk and folds his arms. "Worse."

"I'm guessing they failed to mention my winning personality." Doyle cracks and shifts his weight nervously. "Just give it to me straight, man."

Wes gives Doyle a sympathetic look. "The world as we know it is about to come to an end."

Doyle lets out a low whistle. "Oh, yeah. That's way worse than I thought."

Wes holds up a hand, "Your being here is tied directly to the pending apocalypse… as well as several other events that appear to be fast approaching."

"Geez, man." Doyle says pacing in the doorway. "How do I stop it?! What do I need to do?"

"I'm not sure there's anything you can do." Wes admits. "We all have our part to play in this. I believe yours is to stay and fight."

Doyle swallows hard. "Yeah… I can't do that."

"Why not?" Wes asks evenly.

"Because… " Doyle drops his eyes to the floor. "I might end up hurting someone I care about."

"You believe you're going to hurt Cordelia?" Wes surmises, standing up and leveling Doyle with a stare. Doyle gives him an affirming nod. "And you may very well." Wes continues stepping closer. "But, here's what I know, Doyle. You are a good man, who cares deeply about the people who live and work under this roof. You won't let harm come to Cordelia, or Angel, or anyone else. Not without a fight. And, trust me when I say, there is about to be a fight. I'm not sure all of us will make it through. I'm not sure any of us will."

"What if I'm on the wrong side of it?" Doyle chokes, putting a voice to the fear that's been building inside him.

Doyle sees something in Wes' eyes that appears to echo that same concern. "If you think leaving is the only way that you can keep Cordelia safe, then, by all means, you should go. But, you're not the only danger she faces, and I suspect she'd be much safer with you at her side."

Fred enters the front doors of the Hyperion with Gunn, both bleary eyed from lack of sleep. It had been a long night spent staking out a possible vamp nest. They are holding hands, as they tend to do a lot these days. Gunn turns toward Fred, leaning down to plant a kiss on the tip of her nose. "Why don't you go on up? Wes' light is on, I'll let him know we're back."

"Don't be too long." She says smiling up at him. "Seriously… don't. Because I'm so tired I'm liable to fall asleep in the shower and if you're not there to rescue me, I might drown."

"I'm sorry, did you just ask me to rescue you from the shower? Maybe I don't need to talk to Wes after all." He grins at her before leaning down to kiss her on the lips this time.

At that moment, a figure steps out of the back office. They both look up, expecting Wes, but instead it is Doyle standing before them. He looks like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

"Doyle!" Fred cries happily, not stopping to consider his less-than-thrilled expression. It had been days since she'd last seen him, and while she wasn't entirely sure what had made him disappear in the first place, she was thrilled to see him back amongst them, safe and sound. "Thank goodness you're back. We've all been so worried."

"Some more than others." Gunn mumbles. While he's not unhappy to see Doyle, he's also not thrilled at the effect Doyle's disappearing act had on all his friends.

Meanwhile, Fred's enthusiasm seems to make a positive impression on Doyle, his anxious expression gives way to a sliver of a smile. "Sorry to worry ya, love."

As Doyle steps around the counter, they notice the overflowing pillowcase under his arm.

"You're not leaving again, are you?!" Fred exclaims.

Gunn places a comforting arm around her shoulders, giving a little squeeze. "He's probably just looking for the laundry room. Isn't that right, Doyle?" Gunn gives Doyle a warning glance, pretty certain that is not, in fact, what he was doing. "Did you find it okay?"

"Ah… yeah. But I forgot the fabric softener." Doyle replies, hovering near the bottom of the steps.

"Angel must be happy your back." Fred hedges, wanting to say something useful, but feeling intimidated by the undercurrent of tension in the air.

Doyle's expression wavers a bit. "Actually, Fred, I'm betting you're currently the only resident of this hotel who's happy to see me. Connor might not mind so much, either."

"Charles is happy, too." Fred insists, placing a hand on Gunn's chest. "He's just grumpy because he hasn't had any sleep. Or a shower."

She gives him a meaningful look and Gunn decides to give an inch. "She's right. I could really use that shower."

Doyle gestures up the stairs. "Y'know, I didn't get much in the way of sleep, myself. I'll be seeing you both later, yeah?" He starts to walk up the stairs, but turns back at the halfway point. "I'd appreciate ya not telling Cordy I'm here. Just for the time being."

Fred absorbs his request and diverts her eyes, a sure sign that she's not in agreement. Gunn stares in defiant silence. Neither one of them is willing to lie to Cordelia on his behalf. Doyle nods at them in silent understanding. "I won't hold it against ya if you do, o'course."

As he continues up the stairs, Fred and Gunn watch him go. When he is out of sight Fred turns her gaze back up to Gunn. "You should've been nicer to him, Charles. He's obviously having a difficult time reassimilating. He needs our support."

"What about Cordelia?" Gunn shakes his head in disagreement. "I mean, I like the guy and all, but so far all he's done is cause her grief. Running off like that, without a word…that's not how you treat someone you love."

"I'm sure he had a reason." Fred insists. "They're gonna make up. It's like destiny or something, right? Star-crossed lovers, separated by death, finally reunited... they have to make up."

"I never knew you were such a romantic," Gunn says with an affectionate chuckle. He takes her hand pulling her gently toward the stairs.

"There's a lot you don't know about me." Fred replies, in her best mysterious voice. "But, I'm willing to share."

Thoughts of Cordelia and Doyle are left behind as they make their way upstairs and into their own little world.