Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or situations of 'Angel' or 'BTVS' they are the property of Joss Whedon et al. I do not own the character named 'Skylar', her name, powers or history, they belong to 'gidgetgirl' who has lent them to me, and did so previously to Ivorycat. The two stories are not associated.

The actual plot is however, mine.

A/N: This chapter marks the beginning of the real plot. I'm not entirely sure whether it will continue with Skylar as a baby, or still skip ahead to her aged four or five. Any votes, voice 'em in the reviews.

/

"You're moping." Angel shook his head determinedly.

"Cordelia, I am not moping." He shifted Skylar from his shoulder so that she was cradled against his chest. The brunette sighed exasperated, and rolled her eyes heavenward.

"Angel, you mope. You mope like Doyle drinks," she added, as an afterthought. Doyle looked up from futilely trying to unscrew the pill bottle, and focused bleary bright blue eyes on her.

"Princess, I resent that," he pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alieviate his headache, his soft Irish brogue thickening with the hangover. "I don't drink as much as he mopes."

Cordelia considered it a moment, pausing in her flicking through the –unpaid- bills to be sent out again to clients, and tapped her finger against her lower lip thoughtfully. "It's pretty close. But then, even you getting hammered doesn't compare to a visit down 'think about Buffy' lane.." she trailed off, as the look of gloom on their boss's face darkened. "Oops, did I say the 'B' word?" she finished nervously, miming zipping her lips, not without a self satisfied smirk gleaming in her eyes. It was so a Buffy-mope.

"Can I see the little darlin'?" Doyle asked, reaching out to Angel. Carefully, Angel placed the baby in the Irishman's arms. Skylar batted his nose with one hand contentedly as he did so. He'd soon become resigned to his baby being slightly more... violent in expressing her feelings than most. Doyle groaned as the little girl was nestled into his arms.

"That's the girl," he sighed, smiling a little at her immediate grab on his fingers. Skylar gazed up at him, amused for the moment with a game she had invented, along the lines of 'stuffing his fingers into her mouth, and sucking hard'.

As Cordelia and Angel continued to argue half heartedly as to whether Angel was moping, acting gloomy, sulking, and other various forms of hanging about looking less like a creature of the night, and more like a six year old whose favourite toy had been taken away, Doyle groaned louder, and rested his head in his left hand, tucking Skylar closer to him more securely with his right hand.

"Would you keep it down?" he said pathetically, shooting Cordelia a pleading look. "My head is pounding like the Cantathian demon drums."

"Which means," Cordelia interpreted for anyone listening, with a derisive sniff, "That he got drunk in some little Irish bar until two in the morning, and spent dawn wailing about leaving the Emerald Isle, and singing songs with the rest of the washed-up, fashion-less Irish Americans in Los Angeles."

Doyle knew he shouldn't have taken Angel and Cordelia to that bar after a late demon brawl last week. He was about to protest again at the level of noise, but as he was groping for words to describe the current pain shooting through his temples, he found himself searching for the agony. A soothing coolness moved through his head, and his headache was... gone.

"Well that's a good thing with Cordelia around," he informed Skylar. Her eyes had become an inky dark blue, and hadn't changed much in the last couple of weeks or so.

"Cordelia, enough!" Angel finally snapped, stalking into his office, and closing the door behind him.

"What's up his ass?" Cordelia muttered, sitting down at her own desk, and starting up the computer. Doyle gave a soft whistle through his teeth.

"And didn't you mention the 'B' word?" he asked reprovingly. "Y'know what he's like around her, although someone could take anything from someone as beautiful as you, princess," he finished, admiration and mischief sparkling in his bright blue eyes.

"So not happening," she told him, without looking up from flipping through case files. "When will Angel make these people pay?"

"He's not in it for the money, girl," Doyle reminded her, picking a pacifier up from the nearest desk, and offering it to Skylar. "He's after redemption. A guilt-ridden avenger of all the wrongs done to the innocent, a champion-"

"Who's only real concern is keeping himself from getting groiny with the Slayer, and ending up Angelus again, blah blah blah," Cordelia interrupted, thoroughly unimpressed by the latest rendition of Doyle's 'hero' spiel. "But we have bills to pay. Some of us have expenses."

"For those pieces of fabric you call clothes?" Doyle raised one eyebrow. Cordelia folded her arms across her chest.

"You don't seem to mind," she answered defensively. "Besides, this is genuine Valentino. And we have to look good, or we won't get any rich clients." She scanned him over and shook back her thick hair, satisfied. "Some of us have to make the effort," she emphasised.

"Darlin', you look good enough for the both of us," he answered honestly. Cordelia smiled to herself, and preened. Even compliments from the half-drink Irish deadbeat were compliments, and in L.A, they were thin on the ground.

/

"I'm going out," Angel informed them both, swirling the black coat off the stand, and around his shoulders as the dusk settled further into darkness over the city. Cordelia stood up, confusion on her face.

"Out? Where?"

"And why are we not with you, and all?" Doyle interrupted, rising from beside Skylar's crib. Angel paused, his hand on the door knob.

"I'm going to see some clients," he told them, and then shot a tiny grin at Cordelia. "You told me to get the bills paid. So I will."

"And you're leaving me with him?" she spluttered, pointing to Doyle. Angel considered it a moment, sizing up the two employees, and then glancing at the sleeping baby in the crib.

"No. I'm leaving both of you with Skylar," he decided, and left before Cordelia's indignant protest could be voiced.

/

As the moon rose higher in the sky, a dark cloud moved across it, blocking the silvery light briefly from view. The robed figure lifted back his black hood, and regarded the moon solemnly, his blood-red skin glistening. He sniffed, slitty nostrils flaring, and a soft sigh rose up.

Pushing aside the thick, nailed oak door, he walked into the dim room, lit only by the dozen fires, whose heavy smoke was acrid, and stung the eyes. A throaty growl of inquiry met his ears, and Dak'ath fell to his knees in an obsequious manner, jumping up as soon as possible, eager to tell his news.

"It has been done," he directed the statement to the throne at the far end of the room, where the shadows fell across. "The power has been used. They are here."

The figure on the throne shifted, and a face appeared in the gloom, deep crimson, and dripping, a lascivious, bloodthirsty grin appearing.

"Soon," Dak'ath promised fervently, bowing his head to the ancient stone statue, pressing his hands against the cracked and weathered base, now in the room of the leader for safekeeping. "Soon, She will come again."

A hideous baying began, surrounding them.

A/N: Next chapter, Doyle and Cordelia babysit, while Angel comes up against a client.

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