"Five by Five," Part I

"He's never gonna do it. What a waste of Doyle's already limited brain cells."

"Heeeey." Doyle opened one eye, and directed it upward to where his girlfriend was pacing the floor outside of Angel's closed office door. Inside, Angel was discussing the finer points of turning state's witness to a tattooed thug named Marquez—currently alone in this world, now that all his friends had been dismembered and incinerated by a group of demon assassins.

At least Doyle's vision had led them to save the right guy, and just in the nick of time, too. Shame about his friends though.

"That wasn't an insult, Doyle." Cordelia explained, making her way over to where he lay horizontally on the couch with his leather jacket thrown over him as a blanket. It had been a long night in a sea of long nights. Doyle could hardly remember the last time he'd spent a full night in an actual bed. "I'm merely pointing out that the Powers That Be sent us on a fool's errand with this guy. He's never gonna testify."

"But the brain cell bit… that was a cheap shot, yeah?" Doyle mumbled into the arm he was using as a pillow.

She wrinkled her nose in disagreement and placed her hands on her hips as she made her case. "Sorry to break it to you, but I'm pretty sure those visions are massacring a small village of brain cells every time they hit. And, the shot of whiskey you took right after the vision—that's also big with the brain cell killing. It's amazing you're as smart as you are considering the cells in your brain should probably be on the endangered species list."

"Can't argue with that." He conceded, closing his eye once again and trying to burrow deeper under the jacket-turned-blanket. Cordelia leaned down, smoothing the jacket over him as if she was tucking in a small child. She then planted a light kiss on Doyle's forehead.

A smile spread across his lips as his eye popped open once again. "Hope ya don't do that for all your co-workers, darlin'."

A loud snore emanated from one of those other co-workers. Wesley was asleep with his head down on Cordelia's desk. He stirred a bit, making a series of snorting sounds and then fell back into a more rhythmic breathing pattern.

"Only the Irish ones." She responded with a laugh, then as it occurred to her that Angel was also Irish, she amended her previous statement. "Who don't have fangs."

The door to Angel's office burst open, giving Cordelia a start. The short, stocky man named Marquez came barreling out, making a break for the front door. "No way. I'm gone!"

Angel didn't even bother leaving his office. It was merely his arm that darted out, catching Marquez by the shirt collar and yanking him back inside. "Shut up and sit down!"

The door slammed shut once again, causing Wesley to sit up straight behind the desk, shaking his head in sleepy confusion.

Cordelia gave Doyle a skeptical shrug, as if to say her point was just illustrated rather plainly. She then turned to Wesley and gestured to her mouth. "Uh, Wesley…. you have a little drool…"

Cordelia balanced the phone in the crook of her neck as she listened to the very dignified voice on the other end of the line talk about the dissolution of his marriage—or rather, the anticipated dissolution of said marriage. Okay, more like the bloody murder of his marriage, without the literal blood or murder. She had barely been listening, merely waiting for the right moment to let him down easy.

"Unfortunately we don't really do divorce cases…. No, it's not about the money… Oh, it's about that much money?! How soon can we meet?"

Doyle sauntered through the doorway from Angel's office flashing her a negative look and gesturing for her not to do what he knew she was about to do. He was right; Angel didn't do broken marriages or scandalous affairs, not when there were people being threatened by literal evil on a nightly basis. But then she remembered how overdue their electric bill was and she found herself scribbling the guy's information on a post-it note. "Yeah, I know where that is. Okay, we'll see you there tomorrow. Thanks for calling. Bye!"

"Cordelia." Doyle warned, after she'd hung up the receiver. "Angel's never gonna go for that. Doesn't matter how much it pays."

"Why were you eavesdropping in the first place, huh?" Cordelia asked defiantly, not meeting Doyle's disapproving eyes. "Isn't that a violation of client-detective rights or something?"

Doyle moved forward and perched himself on the edge of her desk as he did so often. Cordelia used to think he only did that in order to see down her blouse—which he probably did—but it was also the closest he could reasonably sit to her when she was behind the desk. And he liked to be close; he liked to let her know that she had his undivided attention. "I wasn't eavesdropping, Princess. I was sitting right in the next room. In case ya didn't know, your lovely voice carries right through the door." He leaned over and picked up the post-it note, studying what she'd written down. "And this guy's not a client, yet. That's sorta the point…. For argument's sake, how much is he willing to pay?"

"The number's at the bottom." She said nonchalantly. She didn't have to look up to see Doyle's reaction, she heard his subtle gasp and imagined his eyes were doing that nearly-bugging-out-of-his-head thing.

She smiled up at him triumphantly, seeing that she'd already won the battle. Doyle was an easy mark—when it came to money matters, he usually sided with Cordelia. Especially considering she'd just spent the better part of the morning complaining to him just how broke they were—verging on bankrupt. They couldn't even afford to buy magazines to fill their waiting room at this rate, and without those magazines her job was going to be a whole lot more boring. If they didn't get a paying client soon, there would be no Angel Investigations. And that was something they could all agree was bad news.

The familiar whir and clank of the elevator in Angel's office told Doyle and Cordelia they were about to get either very good news or very bad news, depending on how today's trial went. Cordelia looked up at the two grinning idiots who entered the room a few moments later and didn't have to wonder which type of news it was.

"We won!" Wesley announced unnecessarily.

"Well done, Angel, man. I knew you'd show that guy the err of his ways." Doyle said approvingly, standing up from his perch and walking over to give Angel a friendly pat on the back.

"What I think he showed him was his vamp face." Cordelia snorted.

"He just needed a little guidance." Angel agreed proudly. "A push in the right direction."

"Yes, well, the celebration may be short lived. I have to assume that Wolfram & Hart will be pushing back in our direction." Wesley reminded them.

Doyle folded his arms over his chest and nodded along with Wesley's train of thought. "We're on their bad side now. That's for sure."

"Haven't we been on their bad side since Angel turned one of their most valuable clients into a not-quite-human fireball?" Cordelia asked pointedly, looking up from her desk. "And then made it worse by robbing them of Doyle's eyeballs, which they won fair and square via auction. And then there was that time when that Lilah-whatsherface-character wanted to buy Angel—"

"Ah, Cordy, I think we all get the point, yeah?" Doyle interrupted her.

"We're on their really bad side now." Angel guessed with a small shrug, heading into his office. He was probably planning on doing that thing where he put his feet up on the desk and smirked to himself, reflecting on a job well done. It was Angel's equivalent to a celebratory parade down Main Street.

Cordelia stood up from the desk retrieving the post-it Doyle had moved off to the side. She waved it in the air and raised her eyebrows at Doyle encouragingly, speaking in a voice intended to carry to the other room. "Why don't you tell Angel about our good news? The new paying case."

Doyle's eyes diverted to the ceiling, but he obediently snatched the small square of paper and followed Angel into his office. "Hey Angel, man, I've been thinking—there's an untapped goldmine of hopeless individuals just waiting for our help, and as a formerly married man, I feel compelled to plead their case…"

Doyle exited the elevator behind Angel and Cordelia, wearing a deep frown on his face. They were on their way to meet their new potential client, and on the way up from the underground garage, Cordelia had politely informed him that he wasn't actually invited to lunch.

"Maybe ya coulda mentioned something back at the office, yeah?" Doyle grumbled trudging behind them.

"I did." Cordelia reminded him. "What do you think that whole big speech about our lack of petty cash was about?"

"I thought you were saying all that to keep Wesley from coming!" Doyle whined. "And what about the fact that we wouldn't even be having this little lunch date if it weren't for me, huh? I'm the one who convinced Angel to go along with all this."

Angel snorted derisively. "I can still change my mind."

"Angel gets to go and he doesn't even eat!" Doyle complained. "Did I mention that I'm starving?"

"Doyle." She said, pausing long enough to drop back to his slightly slower pace. "Do you really want to eat at one of those highfalutin places where they put sprouts on everything? You hate sprouts. Wouldn't you rather just run over to In-N-Out and grab a burger and fries?"

Well, when she put it that way. He really did hate sprouts. "Fine." He relented. "I'll meet ya back here in an hour, yeah? And you'd better have us a new client, so that next time we can all eat."

He started to walk away when a strange wave of intuition hit him. Every one of his senses—along with all the hairs on his neck—were at full attention. He didn't have time to analyze what it might mean, as he raced the few steps to catch up with Angel and simultaneously felt a bolt of pain through his right shoulder.

It nearly knocked him off his feet, so sudden and intense was the pain. His body reflexively tried to morph into his demon form, and it took every ounce of willpower he had to ensure it didn't happen in front of the dozens of eyeballs around him. He felt the quills barely graze the surface of his skin before he was retracting them—a blink and a miss. Angel spun around in a split second and caught Doyle as he was propelled forward. It took Cordelia another moment to react, and when she did, she shrieked in terror. "Oh my God, Doyle!"

He still wasn't sure what had hit him, but he twisted his head around to see a wooden bolt sticking out of his shoulder blade. A bolt that had been aimed directly at Angel's heart.

"Well, alright!" An enthusiastic female voice with a distinct New England accent echoed throughout the lobby where they stood.

Doyle, still being held up by Angel and worried over by Cordelia, craned his neck to see an attractive, leather clad brunette, wearing a broad grin. A crossbow was slung over her shoulder, making it no secret that she'd been the one to shoot. "This is gonna be way more fun than I thought. Let the games begin!"

She didn't wait for a reply, taking off at full speed—which was clearly faster than that of an average human—and disappearing into the bright sunshine outdoors.

"Friend o' yours?" Doyle gasped, finding it hard to move the right side of his body. Not only had the bolt sunk itself deep into his muscle tissue, but there was a burning sensation radiating from the wound—as if there was a chemical element.

"Faith!" Angel cried after her, clearly in a state of shock. "I thought she was in a coma."

"She wouldn't have been able to shoot Doyle if she was in a coma!" Cordelia scathed. "We need to get him to a hospital."

"No hospital." Doyle choked out, struggling to find his voice.

Angel was already moving back to the elevator and the waiting car below. He kept an arm under Doyle's uninjured shoulder, making sure he stayed on his feet. Cordelia scurried along beside them, digging for her cell phone as she moved. When she finally yanked it out of her bag she rapidly dialed the office. "Wesley, it's me... No, no. Listen... Faith's awake..."