DISCLAIMER: Okay kids, I have a little request for all of you reading this
fanfic ... I've been getting a lot of feedback, which is wonderful; some
people have even suggested 'shippers to me. This is what I'm asking of you:
to submit a review telling me who you'd like to end up with whom. I've got
some couples in mind, but I'd really like to know which couplings are most
popular. So please do me this huge favour and tell me who's destined to be
with Angel, Buffy, Wesley, Cordelia and Doyle. Much thanks! Oh, the song's
by Bruce Springsteen, and it's called 'My City of Ruin', and the quotes are
from the song 'The Innocent' by Goldfinger, Good Charlotte and Mest, 'Wild
Horses' by the Stones, and 'Dead Is The Drunkest That You Can Get' by those
good old Canadian rockers The Rheostatics. Cheers! And as always, this
one's for you Glenn ...
******************
"The start of Armageddon, and it's just another day."
-'The Innocent'
"Let's do some living, after we die."
-'Wild Horses'
"Dead is the drunkest that you can get, though I haven't got that drunk yet."
****************** There is a blood red circle
on the cold dark ground
and the rain is falling down
The church door's blown open
I can hear the organ's song,
but the congregation's gone
My city of ruins
My city of ruins
Now the sweet bells of mercy
drift through the evening trees,
young men on the corner
like scattered leaves,
the boarded up windows,
the empty streets
While my brother's down on his knees
My city of ruins
My city of ruins
Come on, rise up!
Come on, rise up!
Now's there's tears on the pillow,
darlin' where we slept
and you took my heart when you left
Without your sweet kiss
my soul is lost, my friend
Tell me how do I begin again?
My city's in ruins
My city's in ruins.
Angel was still running when the demons caught up with him.
Sprinting past the ransacked buildings, now simply large piles of glorified firewood, the heat of the flames growing unbearably warm on his skin. He'd been racing so fast that any living being would be gasping for breath, their heart thumping wildly in their chest; Angel would of looked cool and collected after a marathon. He was only two, maybe three blocks from the Hyperion ... three blocks from the answers to his questions, from the quelling of his fears. The Warrior clung desperately to the thought of who awaited him at the hotel; who had to be there. Because if he arrived to an empty, silent lobby, to a mocking, dead whisper that echoed through every recess of that now-veritable tomb, then ...
(-I don't know-)
That realization sent a wave of panic spiraling through the vampire-in- motion; a cool brand of fear settled deep in his stomach. Every iota of energy had been spent on reaching home, he'd barely given any thought to what would happen if he was wrong.
(-I can't be; I just ... know-)
Angel's steadfast faith in his ethereal visitor, the anchor which kept him from plunging into the icy depths of despair, began to faltered.
(-Do you, really? Maybe you're just so desperate, you've convinced yourself ...-)
'No.'
It was strong, determined, resounding. 'I felt the ... change, in the air. That electricity. Someone's here, someone good, and they're going to help us win.' Angel The Hopeful emerged victorious from his silent battle of the psyche. Possibilities, images of Warriors long-departed or much exalted flashed through his frantic mind. The scent, the feel of this new caller was ... intimate, familiar, though.
Dark.
As if a thick band of lead was wrapped around his soul ... and very slowly, the poison was seeping through every fibre of his being.
And then ... the smell of slaughter with it, ripe and vicious.
Angel didn't have time to follow up on that last contemplation, however, because five noxious-looking demons materialized from the shadows, advancing on him with slimy, greedy claws. They resembled The Beast, with cloven hooves and protruding horns, but their figures were hunched, submissive; the incognizant forms of witless slaves. The creatures shuffled towards him, their dark eyes glowing with the delicious urge to kill.
Angel rotated slowly, admiring the loose circle the demon spawn had formed around him. "Ooh tactical, nice move!" he taunted, feeling cocky. He was high on his own power, the apparent weakness of his opponent, the inevitability of all this ending so soon. It was the first time he'd actually felt good in ages ... The demons merely grunted in reply.
"What guys, no witty repartee?" the vampire demanded, feigning dismay. "And I was looking forward to exchanging some clever banter before I kicked your asses." He took a sharp swing at the nearest hellion.
It missed.
The offending demon grabbed Angel by the shoulders, and conveying all the effort of tossing a rag doll, threw him unceremoniously against a very solid, very painful brick wall.
Groggy, the Warrior shook his head, then noticed that the creatures had surrounded him, and were closing in. Five of them. Against one. Of him. Who was currently backed into a dead end. With no help. Or weapons.
"This is so not good."
*******************
Harriet Doyle had seen many strange things in her life, but nothing quite compared to the onslaught from Hell raging down on Los Angeles that very night. She'd observed over six dozen different tribes of demons, bore witness to some of the most bizarre rituals on Earth. Almost watching her ex-husband's brains be consumed by a clan of Anamovics definitely ranked up there, but this ... this really took the cake. Fiery orange stars seemed to fall from the sky, devastating the vegetation around Harriet's Malibu condo; that metallic red cloud still hung menacingly over the city. There'd been the earthquakes and the lightening storms ... now the sky was serene, but still spitting out a hail of fire.
The ethnodemonologist watched with a touch of amazement as all the trees and bushes on the surrounding block were scorched black. The houses would be next, she mused, gazing about her stylish, airy home. The cozy sofas draped in fine Italian silks, the priceless antique artifacts adorning her walls, the Oriental throw rugs imported from Hong Kong ... Harry had thrown herself into a violent redecoration after her breakup with Richard, spending lavish amounts of money on a complete facelift for her beachfront house. She had needed a cleansing, a fresh beginning; an escape from the reminders of failures and disappointments in love. First Francis, then Richard ...
(-That's not fair, sister. Francis was never a failure-)
No, he'd never been that. Allen Francis Doyle, her ex-husband, half-demon hero and charming Irishmen, had flirted with endless identities, succumb to some awful vices in his young, doomed life. He'd stumbled often, sure, fallen even a couple of times, but in the end ...
(-He won.-)
Harry smiled. Out through the bay window, water lapped calmly on the edge of the beach. The ocean was bathed in that faint orange hue, the same areole of colour that haloed the city. Bidding a silent goodbye to her home of three years, she grasped the knapsack waiting patiently beside her and hefted the heavy canvas bag onto her back, grunting with exertion.
(-Who know a couple of stakes and a ceremonial axe could be so heavy?!-)
Well, it was worth it. She boarded up her little condo with the faint, comic hope that it would somehow survive the fires and the looters. Her Explorer was parked out front, already loaded with an illustrious collection of ancient tomes and musty books, more weapons and some light provisions. Casting one more lingering glance at her house, Harriet Doyle quickly hopped into her SUV and drove away to find the one person who could help her, leaving all the remnants of her normal life behind.
One or two demons, sure ... Angel could handle that with his bare hands.
A very large, very pointy piece of steel could take care of three or four demons.
But half a dozen against a dizzy vampire with no place to go?
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Angel muttered to himself, dragging his prone form off the ground and into fighting stance. That 'bad feeling' intensified as one of the creatures took a swing at The Warrior, landing it squarely in his stomach.
The others quickly followed suite, and the vampire could barely keep on his feet before another demon joined the fray and pummeled the Warrior. He managed to get off a sharp right hook, throwing one of the creatures to the ground, then turning to toss another against the brick wall with mighty force.
But there was still too many . too many to fight. They fought Angel to the cold pavement, fierce claws ripping at his skin, digging into his flesh. The beasts overwhelmed him; their blood-red eyes swallowing him whole.
(-Connor . I'm sorry.-)
Then there was a flash of steel and one demon slumped against the building, his gaping wound oozing thick, black blood. The creature shuttered with its' final breath and keeled over. The other beasts noticed the death of their brethren and distracted by the slaughter, turned their backs to Angel.
That was all he needed.
The vampire leapt to his feet, and with a quick roundhouse kick, managed to connect the solid flat of his heel with the back of a demon's skull. There was a sickening crack and the monster collapsed.
Angel tensed into a fighting stance, ready to lunge at his next attacker. He gaped in surprise as the creature fell at his feet, a mammoth knife protruding from its' back. The weapon's owner had already continued fighting, drawing a heavy sword from the sheath on his back, flipping it deftly in his hand. He stabbed one charging demon, slicing through the midsection with a forceful lunge.
(-He looks so familiar-)
The thought was cut short by a forceful charge from one of last remaining demons. It wrestled Angel to the ground, snarling and snapping its' great, fanged jaws. The Warrior delivered a vigorous blow to the creature's gut, heaving him off. It returned with a violent, clawed swipe, and before Angel could stand, he was flat on his back again. The beast knelt over his prey, looming in for the kill. Angel watched the monster's approach with a measure of indifference, took in the feral stench and dripping mouth. The vampire was distantly aware that he was bleeding.
(-Need to fight-)
But he was so tired . his head throbbed, every bone in his undead body ached. Some warm liquid trickled into his eye, obscuring his vision. He was so tired . he just wanted to rest.
A thick sword blade cleaved through the demon's middle, the tip emerging through scabbed, scarred flesh inches away from Angel's throat. The blood- soaked weapon was pulled back with a lurch; the corps quickly tossed aside. A hand was offered to the bewildered vampire.
Angel's gaze slowly traveled up the arm that was extended to him, taking in its' owner's appearance ... battered, brown leather jacket, cable-knit sweater drenched with slimy demon blood, a couple of wicked-looking knives strapped to each thigh, dark jeans caked with mud and grime, heavy, army- issue boots ... and then he was staring into the man's eyes, an intense, startling steel blue.
Angel swallowed forcefully.
"... Doyle?"
The former Seer and once-dead half-demon broke into a lopsided grin, hoisting his stunned friend off the ground. "In the flesh," he quipped, curling one strong hand around the back of Angel's collar, much like he'd done so many years ago aboard the Quintessa.
(-That goodbye seems like a lifetime ago-)
"I ... you're alive?" the vampire managed, gripping Doyle's shoulders tightly. " ...How?" If his heart could beat, it would of shuttered to a stop in this moment. The elation, the unbridled joy would come later ... for now Angel was quite simply dumbstruck.
"I ..." the Warrior stuttered, his mind blank. There was so much he wanted to say ... but a strangled "I missed you" was all that came out.
Doyle gazed up at his old friend, one of the only people who meant the world to him. Angel's soulful brown eyes were still wide with shock, but now they betrayed a deep, aching hurt, a potent loneliness ... and the half- demon knew his words were true. He grabbed the vampire in a quick, rough hug; a smile spreading over his pale features. "Right back at cha, boyo."
(-It's good ta be home-)
Angel nodded wordlessly, his grasp still firm on the half-demon's arm, frantic that he was still tangible, still there. He was frightened beyond belief that this Doyle wasn't real; a product of his desperate imagination, a cruel trick from the Powers That Be, and that as soon as loosened his grip, he would become as ethereal as the humid wind.
"Are you ... are you here for good?" the vampire demanded, his voice breaking. "Do we get you back for good?"
Doyle's grin stretched wider across his lips, blue eyes lighting up with a delighted glow. "They couldn't pull me away if they tried," he announced assuredly, resheathed the broadsword on his back. He tightened the strap that ran vertically across his torso. "Time ta get goin', yea?" he stated, glancing about with growing wariness. He noticed Angel's bloodied torso. "Can ya manage?"
Angel had noticed a distinct change in the half-demon. First, there were the fantastic battle skills; Doyle now possessed a fluid, cat-like grace, an undaunted steel in his posture echoing the vampire's almost exactly; his reflexes were sharp, his strength impressive, his agility stunning. One hand rested comfortably on one of many knives, its' grip well-worn and familiar. He knew how to fight.
But a warrior's abilities was not the only alteration that Angel noticed in his former Seer. He lacked that air of sanguine confidence, his lighthearted slouch and ready wit were pale ghosts of the past. It was in the tension clouding his clear blue eyes, the worry lines marring his smooth features, the clean, straight battle scar that down the left side of his face. Doyle's spirit had been killed as well, leaving simply a shell of what the man had once been ... the Irishman was cynical, jaded. Hardened.
(-Did they teach hand-to-hand combat in Heaven?-)
They began walking, a brisk, decisive pace. Angel broke the comfortable silence with a soft question. "Why did you do it?"
Doyle glanced at his companion, his winsome features betraying amusement and slight confusion. "Do what, man?"
"Jump."
The half-demon smirked, but it slowly developed into a weary sigh. "Ah yes ... my short-lived but glorious career in bravery," he pronounced sarcastically, a hint of good humour evident in his tone.
"It should of been me." Angel's statement was brutal, honest, drenched with self-loathing.
"No." Doyle's voice had turned cold, forceful. He stopped, turning to face the vampire. "Don't ya dare try playin' broody boy wit' me, Angel. I know you better 'en that. Thought maybe after three years ya'd stopped the self- flagellating bullshit. Seems I was wrong, sadly."
"You died for us," the vampire murmured remorsefully, his brown eyes glistening.
"Right. I chose to die for you 'n Cordelia," Doyle maintained testily, jabbing the Warrior's shoulder to punctuate his points. "Because it was my time to play the hero for one moment in my pathetic, insignificant life. Because I needed to atone, and you needed to stay."
"And what a great job I've done," Angel retorted sarcastically, gesturing to the flaming city around them.
"Ya don't get it yet, do ya?" Doyle demanded in frustration, throwing his arms up in the air. "My God, man, I was hopin' the PTBs would give me back this gig just so I could kick your ass. 'Specially after firin' your staff and gettin' your jollies wit' Darla last year."
The vampire looked away, shamefaced.
"You comin' back from the fiery pits of Hell? Happened for a reason. My death and sudden resurrection? Reason behind that too. Startin' ta see a pattern here, boyo? Think of how many hapless victims you've saved in the past three years! Think of how many lives! You were the Warrior, and ya did good. Until you started forgettin' why you came back in the first place."
Angel stood motionless, silently absorbing the Irishman's rant.
"I was startin' to think I wasted my life on you ... and my death too." His tone was venomous, biting; his glare reproachful.
"Doyle ." Angel sighed deeply. "Sometimes . it was hard without you."
A long moment passed as the two Champions stood amid the burning rubble, regarding each other silently. When the half-demon spoke again, his voice was far more gentle. "I know it's been tough, boyo, but it's about ta get a helluva lot tougher." Doyle placed one hand on the vampire's shoulder, squeezing it affectionately. "Are ya game?"
Angel brightened at the memory, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "I'm game." He recommenced their steady pace towards the Hyperion, through the shattered glass and flaming buildings, through the eternal night and soot-covered ruins, but this time . this time hope and a little Irish half- demon were leading the way.
Wesley Wyndam-Price poured over the texts before him, scanning his eyes over the ancient tomes, searching. He grabbed more dusty books, thumbing the pages expertly. The reading pile on the Hyperion's front counter was growing higher by the minute. Nothing, nothing . all useless. Frustration threatened to overwhelm the Englishman. How were they supposed to avert the bloody Apocalypse if there weren't any writings on it! Already Gunn was out cold, Angel wounded, Lorne and Fred back but visibly shaken, and Cordelia and Connor still unaccounted for.
"Hi."
His aggravated reverie was broken by a sudden feminine voice. Wesley gazed up at the petite redhead gracing their lobby. She was slim, fine-boned, her graceful body clothed in a white V-neck sweater and well-worn jeans. Orange- red curls framed a delicate, oval face, the skin deeply tanned and smattered with freckles. Her eyes were the deepest of browns; they promised laughter and light, but now reflected only an intense sadness.
The Englishman had a bit of trouble finding his voice. "May I help you?"
She glanced about the lobby. "I'm looking for ." Her response was interrupted by the appearance of exactly the ensouled vampire she sought. "Angel!"
He was striding across the room, his injuries treated, his clothes fresh and clean. Angel's smile was uncertain. "Harry ... hi," His voice betrayed pleasant surprise. "It's been a while." His dark eyes shifted quickly, nervously to the upper floor, but she didn't seem to notice.
(-Should I tell her now?-)
The ethnodemonologist smiled in return. "I just got back from Malta last month. I was going to stop by anyway, but well ... impending apocalypse kinda knocked the visiting-importance-factor up to 'very'."
"This is Wesley Wyndam-Price," Angel stated, motioning to the Englishman, who nodded respectfully. "And this an old friend of mine, Harriet Doyle."
'An old friend, Wesley considered. 'That usually has some interesting connotations. So which is it? Demon, witch, hapless, rescued victim?'
Then, as an afterthought: "Do you still go by ... uh, Doyle's name? I mean, after the divorce and ... " Angel cast his eyes downward, awkward.
Harry's features turned gentle. "It's okay, Angel," she murmured, resting a compassionate hand on his forearm. "You can say his name. And yes, I kept it. It felt like ... the right thing to do."
The vampire swallowed forcefully, wondering where that lump in his throat had come from, desperately trying to avoid the empathetic eyes that searched his face. They were so full of pain, but also a serene acceptance, understanding. She still missed him, knew Angel had missed him; a long moment passed as they stood together, bonded by the love and grief they shared over a certain Irish half-demon.
Wesley watched, curious. He hadn't seen much of this Doyle character; been allowed a brief introduction after he'd been herded into the Hyperion by Angel, a quick hello and friendly nod. He'd seemed like just another weary, battle-ravaged Warrior; the scent of death (and what Wesley suspected to be a fine brand of Irish whiskey) clinging his rangy form, haunted, steel blue gaze and lopsided smile. Obviously, there was more than meets the eye, judging by Angel and this young woman's, reaction to his mention.
Angel had recovered quickly, and managed to sputter, "There's something I need to tell you-", before Harry interrupted, motioning outside. "Can you help me bring the stuff in from the car?"
Angel was dumbstruck. "From the car?"
Harry paused in removing her knapsack. "I want to help, Angel. I don't know what's happening, but I want to help you stop it. If ... if Francis isn't here, it's the least I can do." She deposited her book bag on the floor. "You could always use an ethnodemonologist, I'm sure."
Angel paused again, touched by her generosity, before realizing the gravity of the situation and the not-so-dead ex-husband upstairs. "About what I had to tell you-" he continued, stumbling over the words in his rush.
Just then, a disembodied Irish brogue floated down the stairs. "Hey Angel, man ... where do ya keep the towels?"
The vampire glanced up to the top of the stairs, where the speaker attached to that voice stood. Doyle had discarded his leather jacket, and managed to wipe some of the grime off his face, but still looked worse for wear in his soot-matted sweater and blood-soaked jeans. The half-demon was about to inquire about soap too, but the words died on his lips after noticing the feminine figure standing in the Hyperion's lobby.
There was a strangled grasp next to Angel. He turned sharply to witness Harry, face ashen and trembling, almost collapse to her knees. "Francis ..." she whispered weakly. "I ... how? Angel, is it really him?"
The Warrior grinned widely, the first genuine one Wesley had seen touch his lips in weeks. He reached out and carefully placed his hands on her upper arms, supporting the swooning woman. "They brought him back, Harry."
Tears coursed down her white face, unchecked; her hand had flown up to her mouth in complete astonishment. "Oh God, Francis ... I can't ... you're alive?" she sobbed, shuttering with each frantic cry.
Angel idly wondered how much longer Harry could stay on her feet; he didn't need an answer to that query, however, because Doyle had already stampeded down the stairs and was gathering his ex-wife into a passionate, crushing embrace.
They clung to each other desperately; Harry still weeping audibly, and Doyle caressing her shaking back with comforting hands. His face was buried in her long curls, his whispered words of assurance audible to Angel alone ... "It's alright, it's alright. I'm alive, darlin' ... I'm not leavin' again."
Feeling like intruders on a very private moment, the Warrior and the Ex- Watcher stepped back, convening near the front desk to watch the former couple's reunion. "So that's Doyle's ex-wife?" Wesley inquired quietly.
Angel nodded in affirmation, the same infectious grin plastered on his usually serious features. He continued observing the two as her crying subsided and Doyle finally pulled away to plant a tender kiss on her forehead. Angel wasn't surprised to see the moisture of tears in his friend's eyes.
If it wasn't for the gift of highly attuned vampire hearing, he wouldn't of heard Wesley at all.
"Lucky man."
***********************
Now with these hands,
with these hands,
with these hands,
I pray lord
With these hands,
with these hands,
I pray for the strength, Lord
With these hands,
with these hands,
I pray for the faith, Lord
We pray for your love, Lord
We pray for the lost, Lord
We pray for this world, Lord
We pray for the strength, Lord
We pray for the strength, Lord
Come on
Come on
Come on, rise up
Come on, rise up.
A/N: I know this took SOOOO long to be published, but I'm really proud of it, and I wanted it to be perfect. I don't like the ending, but . oh well! Next chapter . the reunion of Cordelia and Doyle, and the rest of A.I meets Angel's former Seer!
******************
"The start of Armageddon, and it's just another day."
-'The Innocent'
"Let's do some living, after we die."
-'Wild Horses'
"Dead is the drunkest that you can get, though I haven't got that drunk yet."
****************** There is a blood red circle
on the cold dark ground
and the rain is falling down
The church door's blown open
I can hear the organ's song,
but the congregation's gone
My city of ruins
My city of ruins
Now the sweet bells of mercy
drift through the evening trees,
young men on the corner
like scattered leaves,
the boarded up windows,
the empty streets
While my brother's down on his knees
My city of ruins
My city of ruins
Come on, rise up!
Come on, rise up!
Now's there's tears on the pillow,
darlin' where we slept
and you took my heart when you left
Without your sweet kiss
my soul is lost, my friend
Tell me how do I begin again?
My city's in ruins
My city's in ruins.
Angel was still running when the demons caught up with him.
Sprinting past the ransacked buildings, now simply large piles of glorified firewood, the heat of the flames growing unbearably warm on his skin. He'd been racing so fast that any living being would be gasping for breath, their heart thumping wildly in their chest; Angel would of looked cool and collected after a marathon. He was only two, maybe three blocks from the Hyperion ... three blocks from the answers to his questions, from the quelling of his fears. The Warrior clung desperately to the thought of who awaited him at the hotel; who had to be there. Because if he arrived to an empty, silent lobby, to a mocking, dead whisper that echoed through every recess of that now-veritable tomb, then ...
(-I don't know-)
That realization sent a wave of panic spiraling through the vampire-in- motion; a cool brand of fear settled deep in his stomach. Every iota of energy had been spent on reaching home, he'd barely given any thought to what would happen if he was wrong.
(-I can't be; I just ... know-)
Angel's steadfast faith in his ethereal visitor, the anchor which kept him from plunging into the icy depths of despair, began to faltered.
(-Do you, really? Maybe you're just so desperate, you've convinced yourself ...-)
'No.'
It was strong, determined, resounding. 'I felt the ... change, in the air. That electricity. Someone's here, someone good, and they're going to help us win.' Angel The Hopeful emerged victorious from his silent battle of the psyche. Possibilities, images of Warriors long-departed or much exalted flashed through his frantic mind. The scent, the feel of this new caller was ... intimate, familiar, though.
Dark.
As if a thick band of lead was wrapped around his soul ... and very slowly, the poison was seeping through every fibre of his being.
And then ... the smell of slaughter with it, ripe and vicious.
Angel didn't have time to follow up on that last contemplation, however, because five noxious-looking demons materialized from the shadows, advancing on him with slimy, greedy claws. They resembled The Beast, with cloven hooves and protruding horns, but their figures were hunched, submissive; the incognizant forms of witless slaves. The creatures shuffled towards him, their dark eyes glowing with the delicious urge to kill.
Angel rotated slowly, admiring the loose circle the demon spawn had formed around him. "Ooh tactical, nice move!" he taunted, feeling cocky. He was high on his own power, the apparent weakness of his opponent, the inevitability of all this ending so soon. It was the first time he'd actually felt good in ages ... The demons merely grunted in reply.
"What guys, no witty repartee?" the vampire demanded, feigning dismay. "And I was looking forward to exchanging some clever banter before I kicked your asses." He took a sharp swing at the nearest hellion.
It missed.
The offending demon grabbed Angel by the shoulders, and conveying all the effort of tossing a rag doll, threw him unceremoniously against a very solid, very painful brick wall.
Groggy, the Warrior shook his head, then noticed that the creatures had surrounded him, and were closing in. Five of them. Against one. Of him. Who was currently backed into a dead end. With no help. Or weapons.
"This is so not good."
*******************
Harriet Doyle had seen many strange things in her life, but nothing quite compared to the onslaught from Hell raging down on Los Angeles that very night. She'd observed over six dozen different tribes of demons, bore witness to some of the most bizarre rituals on Earth. Almost watching her ex-husband's brains be consumed by a clan of Anamovics definitely ranked up there, but this ... this really took the cake. Fiery orange stars seemed to fall from the sky, devastating the vegetation around Harriet's Malibu condo; that metallic red cloud still hung menacingly over the city. There'd been the earthquakes and the lightening storms ... now the sky was serene, but still spitting out a hail of fire.
The ethnodemonologist watched with a touch of amazement as all the trees and bushes on the surrounding block were scorched black. The houses would be next, she mused, gazing about her stylish, airy home. The cozy sofas draped in fine Italian silks, the priceless antique artifacts adorning her walls, the Oriental throw rugs imported from Hong Kong ... Harry had thrown herself into a violent redecoration after her breakup with Richard, spending lavish amounts of money on a complete facelift for her beachfront house. She had needed a cleansing, a fresh beginning; an escape from the reminders of failures and disappointments in love. First Francis, then Richard ...
(-That's not fair, sister. Francis was never a failure-)
No, he'd never been that. Allen Francis Doyle, her ex-husband, half-demon hero and charming Irishmen, had flirted with endless identities, succumb to some awful vices in his young, doomed life. He'd stumbled often, sure, fallen even a couple of times, but in the end ...
(-He won.-)
Harry smiled. Out through the bay window, water lapped calmly on the edge of the beach. The ocean was bathed in that faint orange hue, the same areole of colour that haloed the city. Bidding a silent goodbye to her home of three years, she grasped the knapsack waiting patiently beside her and hefted the heavy canvas bag onto her back, grunting with exertion.
(-Who know a couple of stakes and a ceremonial axe could be so heavy?!-)
Well, it was worth it. She boarded up her little condo with the faint, comic hope that it would somehow survive the fires and the looters. Her Explorer was parked out front, already loaded with an illustrious collection of ancient tomes and musty books, more weapons and some light provisions. Casting one more lingering glance at her house, Harriet Doyle quickly hopped into her SUV and drove away to find the one person who could help her, leaving all the remnants of her normal life behind.
One or two demons, sure ... Angel could handle that with his bare hands.
A very large, very pointy piece of steel could take care of three or four demons.
But half a dozen against a dizzy vampire with no place to go?
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Angel muttered to himself, dragging his prone form off the ground and into fighting stance. That 'bad feeling' intensified as one of the creatures took a swing at The Warrior, landing it squarely in his stomach.
The others quickly followed suite, and the vampire could barely keep on his feet before another demon joined the fray and pummeled the Warrior. He managed to get off a sharp right hook, throwing one of the creatures to the ground, then turning to toss another against the brick wall with mighty force.
But there was still too many . too many to fight. They fought Angel to the cold pavement, fierce claws ripping at his skin, digging into his flesh. The beasts overwhelmed him; their blood-red eyes swallowing him whole.
(-Connor . I'm sorry.-)
Then there was a flash of steel and one demon slumped against the building, his gaping wound oozing thick, black blood. The creature shuttered with its' final breath and keeled over. The other beasts noticed the death of their brethren and distracted by the slaughter, turned their backs to Angel.
That was all he needed.
The vampire leapt to his feet, and with a quick roundhouse kick, managed to connect the solid flat of his heel with the back of a demon's skull. There was a sickening crack and the monster collapsed.
Angel tensed into a fighting stance, ready to lunge at his next attacker. He gaped in surprise as the creature fell at his feet, a mammoth knife protruding from its' back. The weapon's owner had already continued fighting, drawing a heavy sword from the sheath on his back, flipping it deftly in his hand. He stabbed one charging demon, slicing through the midsection with a forceful lunge.
(-He looks so familiar-)
The thought was cut short by a forceful charge from one of last remaining demons. It wrestled Angel to the ground, snarling and snapping its' great, fanged jaws. The Warrior delivered a vigorous blow to the creature's gut, heaving him off. It returned with a violent, clawed swipe, and before Angel could stand, he was flat on his back again. The beast knelt over his prey, looming in for the kill. Angel watched the monster's approach with a measure of indifference, took in the feral stench and dripping mouth. The vampire was distantly aware that he was bleeding.
(-Need to fight-)
But he was so tired . his head throbbed, every bone in his undead body ached. Some warm liquid trickled into his eye, obscuring his vision. He was so tired . he just wanted to rest.
A thick sword blade cleaved through the demon's middle, the tip emerging through scabbed, scarred flesh inches away from Angel's throat. The blood- soaked weapon was pulled back with a lurch; the corps quickly tossed aside. A hand was offered to the bewildered vampire.
Angel's gaze slowly traveled up the arm that was extended to him, taking in its' owner's appearance ... battered, brown leather jacket, cable-knit sweater drenched with slimy demon blood, a couple of wicked-looking knives strapped to each thigh, dark jeans caked with mud and grime, heavy, army- issue boots ... and then he was staring into the man's eyes, an intense, startling steel blue.
Angel swallowed forcefully.
"... Doyle?"
The former Seer and once-dead half-demon broke into a lopsided grin, hoisting his stunned friend off the ground. "In the flesh," he quipped, curling one strong hand around the back of Angel's collar, much like he'd done so many years ago aboard the Quintessa.
(-That goodbye seems like a lifetime ago-)
"I ... you're alive?" the vampire managed, gripping Doyle's shoulders tightly. " ...How?" If his heart could beat, it would of shuttered to a stop in this moment. The elation, the unbridled joy would come later ... for now Angel was quite simply dumbstruck.
"I ..." the Warrior stuttered, his mind blank. There was so much he wanted to say ... but a strangled "I missed you" was all that came out.
Doyle gazed up at his old friend, one of the only people who meant the world to him. Angel's soulful brown eyes were still wide with shock, but now they betrayed a deep, aching hurt, a potent loneliness ... and the half- demon knew his words were true. He grabbed the vampire in a quick, rough hug; a smile spreading over his pale features. "Right back at cha, boyo."
(-It's good ta be home-)
Angel nodded wordlessly, his grasp still firm on the half-demon's arm, frantic that he was still tangible, still there. He was frightened beyond belief that this Doyle wasn't real; a product of his desperate imagination, a cruel trick from the Powers That Be, and that as soon as loosened his grip, he would become as ethereal as the humid wind.
"Are you ... are you here for good?" the vampire demanded, his voice breaking. "Do we get you back for good?"
Doyle's grin stretched wider across his lips, blue eyes lighting up with a delighted glow. "They couldn't pull me away if they tried," he announced assuredly, resheathed the broadsword on his back. He tightened the strap that ran vertically across his torso. "Time ta get goin', yea?" he stated, glancing about with growing wariness. He noticed Angel's bloodied torso. "Can ya manage?"
Angel had noticed a distinct change in the half-demon. First, there were the fantastic battle skills; Doyle now possessed a fluid, cat-like grace, an undaunted steel in his posture echoing the vampire's almost exactly; his reflexes were sharp, his strength impressive, his agility stunning. One hand rested comfortably on one of many knives, its' grip well-worn and familiar. He knew how to fight.
But a warrior's abilities was not the only alteration that Angel noticed in his former Seer. He lacked that air of sanguine confidence, his lighthearted slouch and ready wit were pale ghosts of the past. It was in the tension clouding his clear blue eyes, the worry lines marring his smooth features, the clean, straight battle scar that down the left side of his face. Doyle's spirit had been killed as well, leaving simply a shell of what the man had once been ... the Irishman was cynical, jaded. Hardened.
(-Did they teach hand-to-hand combat in Heaven?-)
They began walking, a brisk, decisive pace. Angel broke the comfortable silence with a soft question. "Why did you do it?"
Doyle glanced at his companion, his winsome features betraying amusement and slight confusion. "Do what, man?"
"Jump."
The half-demon smirked, but it slowly developed into a weary sigh. "Ah yes ... my short-lived but glorious career in bravery," he pronounced sarcastically, a hint of good humour evident in his tone.
"It should of been me." Angel's statement was brutal, honest, drenched with self-loathing.
"No." Doyle's voice had turned cold, forceful. He stopped, turning to face the vampire. "Don't ya dare try playin' broody boy wit' me, Angel. I know you better 'en that. Thought maybe after three years ya'd stopped the self- flagellating bullshit. Seems I was wrong, sadly."
"You died for us," the vampire murmured remorsefully, his brown eyes glistening.
"Right. I chose to die for you 'n Cordelia," Doyle maintained testily, jabbing the Warrior's shoulder to punctuate his points. "Because it was my time to play the hero for one moment in my pathetic, insignificant life. Because I needed to atone, and you needed to stay."
"And what a great job I've done," Angel retorted sarcastically, gesturing to the flaming city around them.
"Ya don't get it yet, do ya?" Doyle demanded in frustration, throwing his arms up in the air. "My God, man, I was hopin' the PTBs would give me back this gig just so I could kick your ass. 'Specially after firin' your staff and gettin' your jollies wit' Darla last year."
The vampire looked away, shamefaced.
"You comin' back from the fiery pits of Hell? Happened for a reason. My death and sudden resurrection? Reason behind that too. Startin' ta see a pattern here, boyo? Think of how many hapless victims you've saved in the past three years! Think of how many lives! You were the Warrior, and ya did good. Until you started forgettin' why you came back in the first place."
Angel stood motionless, silently absorbing the Irishman's rant.
"I was startin' to think I wasted my life on you ... and my death too." His tone was venomous, biting; his glare reproachful.
"Doyle ." Angel sighed deeply. "Sometimes . it was hard without you."
A long moment passed as the two Champions stood amid the burning rubble, regarding each other silently. When the half-demon spoke again, his voice was far more gentle. "I know it's been tough, boyo, but it's about ta get a helluva lot tougher." Doyle placed one hand on the vampire's shoulder, squeezing it affectionately. "Are ya game?"
Angel brightened at the memory, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "I'm game." He recommenced their steady pace towards the Hyperion, through the shattered glass and flaming buildings, through the eternal night and soot-covered ruins, but this time . this time hope and a little Irish half- demon were leading the way.
Wesley Wyndam-Price poured over the texts before him, scanning his eyes over the ancient tomes, searching. He grabbed more dusty books, thumbing the pages expertly. The reading pile on the Hyperion's front counter was growing higher by the minute. Nothing, nothing . all useless. Frustration threatened to overwhelm the Englishman. How were they supposed to avert the bloody Apocalypse if there weren't any writings on it! Already Gunn was out cold, Angel wounded, Lorne and Fred back but visibly shaken, and Cordelia and Connor still unaccounted for.
"Hi."
His aggravated reverie was broken by a sudden feminine voice. Wesley gazed up at the petite redhead gracing their lobby. She was slim, fine-boned, her graceful body clothed in a white V-neck sweater and well-worn jeans. Orange- red curls framed a delicate, oval face, the skin deeply tanned and smattered with freckles. Her eyes were the deepest of browns; they promised laughter and light, but now reflected only an intense sadness.
The Englishman had a bit of trouble finding his voice. "May I help you?"
She glanced about the lobby. "I'm looking for ." Her response was interrupted by the appearance of exactly the ensouled vampire she sought. "Angel!"
He was striding across the room, his injuries treated, his clothes fresh and clean. Angel's smile was uncertain. "Harry ... hi," His voice betrayed pleasant surprise. "It's been a while." His dark eyes shifted quickly, nervously to the upper floor, but she didn't seem to notice.
(-Should I tell her now?-)
The ethnodemonologist smiled in return. "I just got back from Malta last month. I was going to stop by anyway, but well ... impending apocalypse kinda knocked the visiting-importance-factor up to 'very'."
"This is Wesley Wyndam-Price," Angel stated, motioning to the Englishman, who nodded respectfully. "And this an old friend of mine, Harriet Doyle."
'An old friend, Wesley considered. 'That usually has some interesting connotations. So which is it? Demon, witch, hapless, rescued victim?'
Then, as an afterthought: "Do you still go by ... uh, Doyle's name? I mean, after the divorce and ... " Angel cast his eyes downward, awkward.
Harry's features turned gentle. "It's okay, Angel," she murmured, resting a compassionate hand on his forearm. "You can say his name. And yes, I kept it. It felt like ... the right thing to do."
The vampire swallowed forcefully, wondering where that lump in his throat had come from, desperately trying to avoid the empathetic eyes that searched his face. They were so full of pain, but also a serene acceptance, understanding. She still missed him, knew Angel had missed him; a long moment passed as they stood together, bonded by the love and grief they shared over a certain Irish half-demon.
Wesley watched, curious. He hadn't seen much of this Doyle character; been allowed a brief introduction after he'd been herded into the Hyperion by Angel, a quick hello and friendly nod. He'd seemed like just another weary, battle-ravaged Warrior; the scent of death (and what Wesley suspected to be a fine brand of Irish whiskey) clinging his rangy form, haunted, steel blue gaze and lopsided smile. Obviously, there was more than meets the eye, judging by Angel and this young woman's, reaction to his mention.
Angel had recovered quickly, and managed to sputter, "There's something I need to tell you-", before Harry interrupted, motioning outside. "Can you help me bring the stuff in from the car?"
Angel was dumbstruck. "From the car?"
Harry paused in removing her knapsack. "I want to help, Angel. I don't know what's happening, but I want to help you stop it. If ... if Francis isn't here, it's the least I can do." She deposited her book bag on the floor. "You could always use an ethnodemonologist, I'm sure."
Angel paused again, touched by her generosity, before realizing the gravity of the situation and the not-so-dead ex-husband upstairs. "About what I had to tell you-" he continued, stumbling over the words in his rush.
Just then, a disembodied Irish brogue floated down the stairs. "Hey Angel, man ... where do ya keep the towels?"
The vampire glanced up to the top of the stairs, where the speaker attached to that voice stood. Doyle had discarded his leather jacket, and managed to wipe some of the grime off his face, but still looked worse for wear in his soot-matted sweater and blood-soaked jeans. The half-demon was about to inquire about soap too, but the words died on his lips after noticing the feminine figure standing in the Hyperion's lobby.
There was a strangled grasp next to Angel. He turned sharply to witness Harry, face ashen and trembling, almost collapse to her knees. "Francis ..." she whispered weakly. "I ... how? Angel, is it really him?"
The Warrior grinned widely, the first genuine one Wesley had seen touch his lips in weeks. He reached out and carefully placed his hands on her upper arms, supporting the swooning woman. "They brought him back, Harry."
Tears coursed down her white face, unchecked; her hand had flown up to her mouth in complete astonishment. "Oh God, Francis ... I can't ... you're alive?" she sobbed, shuttering with each frantic cry.
Angel idly wondered how much longer Harry could stay on her feet; he didn't need an answer to that query, however, because Doyle had already stampeded down the stairs and was gathering his ex-wife into a passionate, crushing embrace.
They clung to each other desperately; Harry still weeping audibly, and Doyle caressing her shaking back with comforting hands. His face was buried in her long curls, his whispered words of assurance audible to Angel alone ... "It's alright, it's alright. I'm alive, darlin' ... I'm not leavin' again."
Feeling like intruders on a very private moment, the Warrior and the Ex- Watcher stepped back, convening near the front desk to watch the former couple's reunion. "So that's Doyle's ex-wife?" Wesley inquired quietly.
Angel nodded in affirmation, the same infectious grin plastered on his usually serious features. He continued observing the two as her crying subsided and Doyle finally pulled away to plant a tender kiss on her forehead. Angel wasn't surprised to see the moisture of tears in his friend's eyes.
If it wasn't for the gift of highly attuned vampire hearing, he wouldn't of heard Wesley at all.
"Lucky man."
***********************
Now with these hands,
with these hands,
with these hands,
I pray lord
With these hands,
with these hands,
I pray for the strength, Lord
With these hands,
with these hands,
I pray for the faith, Lord
We pray for your love, Lord
We pray for the lost, Lord
We pray for this world, Lord
We pray for the strength, Lord
We pray for the strength, Lord
Come on
Come on
Come on, rise up
Come on, rise up.
A/N: I know this took SOOOO long to be published, but I'm really proud of it, and I wanted it to be perfect. I don't like the ending, but . oh well! Next chapter . the reunion of Cordelia and Doyle, and the rest of A.I meets Angel's former Seer!