Give Me Time
Angel left, and Doyle slid the dead bolt closed behind him. Safe as houses. He sat down on the sofa and, after a moment, buried his head in his hands. One upon a time this would be where he lit up a cigarette - but he didn't smoke anymore. That was something at least.
Angel had asked for his life story. Doyle had tried to laugh it off - but Angel saw through it, saw through the jokes, saw through him - and wanted to know the truth. And one day, Doyle would have to give it to him. Though he wasn't ready yet - he had asked for time, and Angel had agreed.
He didn't know when he would be ready. To tell about the morning he had woken up and turned into a monster, about the life he led before that, the life he had lost. About Harri. About the drinking - though Angel probably had a fair idea of that - the gambling, the money owed, the crimes … and then he'd have to tell him about the family. His family. All dead - because of him. That little girl. Her little, pink shoe…
He spent a lot of time carefully not looking back. Living in the moment because the past was too painful and the future too bleak. Now - maybe - for the first time in a long time, and thanks to Angel - perhaps he had some kind of future. He had a job, a mission, a purpose, friends … Cordelia. For the first time in a long time he had hope.
But a man with a future had to deal with his past. And he wasn't ready yet. He didn't know when he would be.
He couldn't move on from what he was, from what he had allowed himself to become, until he faced up to how he had got there. And telling Angel would be a step in the right direction. And he wanted to take that step. He wanted to become something more than he was... He just needed more time.
