"Five by Five," Part II

Doyle was seated, shirtless at Angel's kitchen table while Wesley and Cordelia fussed over his wound.

He groaned as Wesley put a final stitch into the back of his shoulder. The whiskey bottle he gripped in his left hand was shakily brought up to his lips, and he heard Cordelia's worried sigh. At least she didn't chastise him for drinking, probably realizing that if any man needed a drink, it was one who'd just been shot in the back by a bolt from a crossbow.

The do-it-yourself "surgery" had tested the limits of Doyle's pain threshold. If he'd thought the bolt hurt going in, it was nothing compared to having it forcibly yanked out. The stitches Wesley had put in thereafter were a picnic in comparison. The real issue, however, was the burning and throbbing that seemed to be located deep within the muscle tissue of his shoulder. The sensation hadn't disappeared with the removal of the bolt. And the numbness that radiated down his arm was more than a little disconcerting. He still wasn't willing to risk a trip to the hospital, but he had to wonder if there wasn't some kind of permanent nerve damage as a result of the deep puncture wound.

Wesley moved out of the way, so Cordelia could step in and place a thick bandage over the fresh stitches, gently taping it in place. Meanwhile, Wesley walked over to the sink to wash Doyle's blood from his hands.

"I'm afraid that's the best I can do." Wesley said, with his back turned and the water running.

Cordelia's nervous fingers lingered on Doyle's flesh, one of them traced over the tattoo that sat several inches away from his wound. He could feel the concern pouring off her, and as much as he was touched, her rattled nerves were causing him more anxiety than anything else. He pushed his chair back from the table and used his good arm to pull her down into his lap, placing a reassuring kiss on her shoulder. "I'm fine now, love. Doctor Wesley did a real good job."

She looked like she wanted to say something, but Angel's abrupt entrance cut her off. "Giles said she left Sunnydale about a week ago. He described her mental state as borderline psychotic."

"Nothing borderline about it." Cordelia grumbled halfheartedly. "I mean, did you see her outfit?"

Wesley had picked up the bolt that was previously occupying Doyle's shoulder and was studying it closely. He was visibly distracted as he answered Angel. "It isn't right. I was Faith's Watcher. Giles should have contacted me the moment she woke from her coma."

"Sounds like he may have had his hands full." Doyle surmised, noting the worry lines that had appeared on his best friend's brow. "She went after Buffy first, yeah? The girl okay?"

Angel nodded curtly. "Yeah, but... Giles said it was rough."

"Any of her friends get shot?" Cordelia inquired accusingly from her place on Doyle's lap. He gave her arm a little squeeze, hoping she'd stay focused on the more important fact—there was a rogue slayer on the loose and she was gunning for Angel. Cordelia got the message and sighed deeply. "What can we do to help?"

"Help me track her down. Check police reports—beatings, killings—anything within the last week, possibly near bus stations and bars. And then you make yourselves scarce. I don't want anyone else getting hurt—or worse."

"A rogue slayer just tried to kill ya, man!" Doyle objected. "And she came very close to succeeding. We can't just hide our heads in the sand and leave ya to it."

Cordelia turned toward Doyle, leveling him with a baffled stare. "She almost killed you, Doyle! I think the sand idea sounds pretty great, if you ask me, as long as that sand is nowhere near Los Angeles."

"She wasn't aiming for me, darlin'." Doyle pointed out. "I'm not the one who should be laying low."

"No, she wasn't aiming for you." Wesley interjected, causing both Cordelia and Doyle to lift their heads back in his direction. His eyes were still glued to the end of the bolt and he was touching it gingerly, testing for something on his fingertips. He lifted his index finger to his nose and took a whiff. "It was meant for a vampire—it's laced with poison. I imagine it's the same one she used on Angel once before."

Cordelia's eyes had grown wide with fear. "What does that mean?" She choked, protectively leaning closer to Doyle's body. "Does Doyle have to drink Slayer blood?"

"I don't drink blood." Doyle reminded her, a look of disgust crossing his face at the very idea of doing such a thing.

"A Slayer's blood is the cure for the poison." Angel explained, wearing one of his trademark unreadable expressions. "But, Doyle isn't a vampire. And so far... well, he isn't reacting the way I did. That has to be a good sign, right?"

Wesley brought his eyes up from the poisoned bolt and gave a hesitant nod. "Indeed, although I'd have to do more research to know for sure. It shouldn't do anything to a normal human, but—"

"I'm half demon." Doyle finished for him. "The poison targets demon blood. I can feel it."

Cordelia twisted her body toward him as if insulted by his words, her hands flew to his chest and then his neck, feeling for a sign that what he was saying was true. "You feel the poison?" She asked horrified. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?!"

"I didn't know that's what I was feelin'." Doyle admitted, catching her arms with his good hand and reassuring her. "Just 'cause I can feel it doesn't mean I'm dying or anything, so don't go getting yourself all worked up, Cordy. It's a little on the painful side, but I'm thinkin' I'll pull through once it works its way outta my system."

"You may wish to avoid phasing into your demon form while the poison is in your blood." Wesley suggested. "It could potentially worsen the effects."

"You do know who you're talking to, right?" Cordelia scoffed. "That's like telling the Pope he should avoid sinning."

"I think what Cordy's trying to say is, that won't be a problem." Doyle said agreeably, but then raised his eyes back toward Angel meaningfully. "The real issue here is that our psychotic little slayer means business. That wasn't a warning shot—it was a kill shot."

"How did you know to block it?" Angel asked, eying Doyle curiously.

"Way to miss the point, Mr. Bull's-eye." Cordelia interrupted, standing abruptly from Doyle's lap and missing the silent communication that was transpiring between the two men. Doyle knew what Angel was asking—if this was something he'd gleaned in the vision from the other Cordelia. It wasn't, but for the life of him, Doyle would never be able to explain how he knew that shot was coming. He'd just... sensed it.

"You want us gone, right, Angel?" Cordelia continued, hovering over Doyle who remained seated. "Good, then I accept, on behalf of me and Doyle. Sandy shores, here we come."

"Hey—!" Doyle started, but wasn't able to get any further objections out before she whirled at him, finger wagging in his face.

"Don't look at it as hiding, Doyle. Look at it as going on vacation. A vacation that we both very much deserve. A vacation that will keep any more poison-laced arrows from landing in your back." She placed her hands on her hips and stared down at him threateningly. "Besides, what good are you to Angel if you can't even move half your body?"

"I can move more than half—Ah!" He argued, trying to prove his point by lifting his right arm. What he managed was barely a twitch of his fingers and a paralyzing wave of pain. "Yeah, okay." He grumbled reluctantly, conceding on her last point, if nothing else.

"You, too, Wesley." Angel ordered, before striding from the room.

"You're not coming with us, though. That part was clear, right?" Cordelia clarified, giving Wesley a saccharine smile.

Wesley ignored Cordelia's comment rounding the table to meet Doyle's eyes, which were aimed downward toward the linoleum below. "You can't really be considering leaving him alone with this. We're a team. We should be sticking together in a crisis."

"Not my choice, bud." Doyle replied with a shade of sarcasm to his voice. "Angel's the boss."

Doyle didn't agree with Angel on this matter, but until he had full use of the right side of his body, he had no choice but to play along.

"Doyle can you stop looking at that report thingie and focus on making a mental itinerary for our trip? I was thinking, we drive down the coast—I know this gorgeous spot down in Laguna..." Cordelia had been talking excitedly the whole drive from the police station, where they'd picked up the reports Angel had requested, back to her apartment. She paused to see Doyle still furrowing his forehead at something on the sheet of paper in front of him, and she finally yanked it out of his hand and began folding it up. "I really hope you won't be a grump the whole time we're away. I mean, I get why you're worried for Angel. I'm worried, too."

Doyle snorted his dispute with that statement and she huffed back at him. "I am!" She asserted. "I consider him a friend. More than that even, like a brother...okay, maybe not that exactly. But, like, an older-relative of some sort." She shook her head, regaining her original train of thought. "The point is I'm worried for Angel, but this whole hero thing is what he signed up for. It's what he's supposed to do. It's not what you're supposed to do. You're just the messenger-guy, remember? And messengers get vacations."

"I know ya don't think of me as the hero-type, Cordy, but I'm a lot more than just messenger-guy these days." He argued gently, too exhausted to get into a big debate about why he needed to protect Angel at all costs. "It's important Angel lives to see another fight after this one."

"Not if it means you don't." She said bluntly. "I'm sorry, Doyle, but you can't convince me that Angel's life is more important than yours. And the fact that you're always volunteering to incinerate yourself or jump in front of poisoned arrows—I hate it, okay! I mean, I've never had an ulcer before, but I'm pretty sure I will have one from all the worrying I do over you." She removed the shrill quality from her voice and gave him a heartfelt plea instead. "I don't want to lose you. Is that so wrong?"

Her words had their intended impact and she saw his eyes soften and a small smile play at his lips. There wasn't a man alive who didn't want to hear that his life mattered to the woman he loved. "Alright, Princess... I'm right here. And as much as I hate leaving Angel without any backup, I do plan on enjoying our little getaway."

Cordelia gave him a knowing look. "Wesley's not leaving, is he?"

"Ya didn't hear that from me." Doyle played coy, but it was obvious she was right.

She rolled her eyes lightly, but gave him a smile and turned to unlock her front door. She pushed the door open and it slammed right back in her face.

"Phantom Dennis, let us in." She yelled as she pushed the door open a second time. It slammed shut once again.

Doyle gave her a cockeyed grin. "Seems Dennis might be getting a little jealous of me, yeah?"

"Dennis, what the hell?!" She shouted at the closed door. "It's only me and Doyle. He's here all the time! Usually in a state of undress. It's a little late to be jealous!"

Doyle was chuckling beside her, and she glared at him, before trying for a third time to push the door open. This time it stayed that way and she breezed through it. "Thank you!"

"It's alright, Dennis, man. I get it. And I take no offense." Doyle said amicably, conversing with the empty air. "I'm taking her away from ya for a little while, but I promise to bring her back in pristine condition."

Cordelia shook her head at him, completely un-amused by Phantom Dennis' unusual antics. "If you're done reasoning with my ghostly roommate, you should call Angel to tell him about whatever was giving you worry lines." His face scrunched up in reaction to her comment and she handed him back the folded up police report she had snagged several minutes earlier. "You were reading the report and your face got all scrunchy—sort of like it is now, but different."

He took the paper from her and headed for the phone. "You'd better get packing, Princess. And don't feel like ya need to bring your entire wardrobe... in fact, I'm thinking clothes are entirely optional on this particular trip, yeah?" He waggled his eyebrows at her, before lifting the receiver.

"Ooooh, aren't we a naughty one?" Faith said, stepping out of the shadows. "Cordelia's got herself a boy toy with a dirty mouth and a scrumptious accent. Too bad I only came here to torture and kill all Angel's friends, otherwise I could see us having some fun together."

Doyle was frozen in place, the phone receiver still in hand, fingers hovering above the undialed keypad. He thought it unlikely he'd be able to dial now, not without having his fingers crushed by the young woman who'd sauntered out of the darkness. Cordelia was only a few steps behind him, but he felt her move closer in response to Faith's taunt. "You keep your skanky Slayer paws off my boyfriend! You already shot him once today, isn't that enough?!"

"Cordy, maybe don't talk back to the lady just now?" Doyle suggested, trying to keep his voice light, and not let it reveal just how terrified he was. He placed the phone back down and stepped back a step, holding his hands out in surrender, making it clear he wasn't intending to play hero.

"Yeah, Cordy." Faith said mockingly, stepping up to the two of them. She let her eyes roam over Doyle in a vaguely appreciative manner—but coming from her, it looked threatening. Predator sizing up prey. "So, you're the guy who jumped in front of that arrow, huh? Angel was wicked pissed about that. Good reflexes." Within the blink of an eye she slugged him and he went down—out cold. "Mine are better, though."

With Doyle down for the count, Faith took another menacing step toward Cordelia who had thought better of making any further commentary. "You're in luck, Cordelia, I'm not looking for Irish… I have a taste for something a little more uptight. A little more English…"

"I don't know where Wesley is." Cordelia lied, backpedaling nervously.

Faith gave her a pitying look, and then pulled a small purple address book out of her back pocket. "Lying to me—that's gonna cost you." Faith gripped Cordelia by the back of the hair and pulled her toward the bathroom, kicking up the lid of the toilet and holding Cordelia's head over it threateningly. "You can make it up to me by giving Angel a message."

Cordelia breathed rapidly, using her hands to brace herself against the lip of the toilet. "What message?"

"Well, I guess it's more like you are the message..." With that Faith shoved Cordelia's head under the water, letting her thrash and struggle for air. Cordelia could feel her lungs burning and the pain increased with each passing moment. Then everything seemed darker and farther away until she felt like she was floating.

Floating into nothingness.