DISCLAIMER: Still don't own them, you can sue me if you want, but all
you'll get is my CD collection and thirty bucks. Well, just a quick recap,
Doyle and Harry are chillin' at A.I, Wesley's already met the former
Messenger, but there's still a boatload of people waiting to make his
acquaintance. This chapter, everyone's favorite Irishman meets Gunn, Fred,
Lorne and perhaps even Cordy! Remember to keep writing those reviews to
tell me your favorite couples! Send me feedback or I will cry! The song's
'Bulletproof' by Blue Rodeo and the quote's from 'Bells For Her' by Tori
Amos. Cheers!
Tell me one more time again,
just like I didn't hear you,
Like I don't know what's goin' through your mind,
I do.
I played the same game too.
I know it's hard to stop,
even when you want to.
Now the moon lights up your face.
I can see you're cryin',
You never liked me to see you cry it's true.
I've done some cryin' too.
Know the hardest part about it's
tryin' to hide it from you.
Well it would be great to be so strong.
Never needed anybody else to get along.
But we're so scared of the silence,
and the tricks that we use.
Oh we're careful and we're cunning,
but we're easily bruised.
I don't want to lie about it,
I'm not bulletproof
Well I've finally found a way,
to hide from all your glances.
'Till the waiting game we play is through.
I can't.. what's the use?
When all I really want to do is hide out with you.
***************
"Can't stop what's coming,
can't stop what is on it's way."
**************
"So this be dead boy number two?"
Charles Gunn shot a cool, appraising look at Doyle. The demon hunter leaned back against the counter, his handsome features etched with arrogance. He crossed his arms across a broad, well-muscled chest, lifting an eyebrow incredulously. "You the broodin' type? 'Cause we don't need one more o' those skulking 'round the office."
The half-demon laughed sheepishly. He liked this kid already. Cocky bastard, sure, but there was lots of fire in 'im. "Nah man, my broodin' quotient ain't nuthin' compared ta Angel's." He offered his hand. "Name's Allen Doyle, but I usually jus' go by tha last part."
Gunn returned the hearty shake. "Charles Gunn. Got that hip, singular-name thing goin' on too, so don't be tryin' to call me Charlie or nothin'."
Doyle studied the well-bandaged gash on the fighter's forehead, the sorry, soot-covered state of his once-vibrant garments. He'd obviously just returned from patrolling L.A's devastated streets, and seemed to have found a brawl on his way. "Wouldn't dream of it, friend," the Irishman affirmed affably, turning to Gunn's lovely companion, who was currently speaking to Angel.
She was thin, her frame almost boyish in its' gauntness, with slender, lily- white arms that moved with a life of their own. In conversation they fluttered, danced; possessed some nervous, awkward language. The girl spoke like million theories lay dormant in her mind, itching to be borne from her tongue and find life in words, phrases. Like every breath should be dedicated to the enlightenment of the masses, the exchange of ideas. Her wisdom was rapid, breathless, and her hands flapped as she desperately tried to reveal the beauty and brilliance of the world.
Angel quieted the rambling young woman with a light touch on the shoulder. "Fred," he announced in that calm, collected tone of his. "This is Allen Francis Doyle. He used to work for me, until he-"
"Died," the half-demon supplied helpfully, ignoring the shocked looks from both parties. "Pleased to make your acquaintance." He grasped the hand of a still-dazed Fred.
"Winifred Burkle . but you don't look so dead," she sputtered, her freckled nose crinkling in bewilderment. "Are you a vampire like Angel? 'Cause we're fine with that, if you are. I mean, Cordy's a half-demon now, and Lorne's green, so we're kinda used to it." She self-consciously tucked a piece of wavy brown hair behind one ear.
"I'm actually half-demon, like Cor," Doyle admonished, plunging his hands deep into his jeans' pockets. After three years of battling the forces of evil, often calling on his demon heritage to survive, the Irishman had accepted the merits of his other half, but still hadn't managed to accept its' existence. "An' about three years ago, I got killed in tha line a' duty."
Fred gazed up at him. "Didja go to Heaven?"
Her innocent question caught the former Seer off-guard. Earlier, Angel had skirted around the query, alluded to the fact that he wanted to know; he expected to know eventually, when his resurrected Messenger was ready to tell. The vampire had realized that a trip to Heaven usually didn't result in improved battle skills and vicious scars.
Doyle coughed apprehensively. He shot a slightly panicked look at Angel. "I, um . not exactly, sweetheart." His audience of three drew closer, curiosity, and sympathy, evident in their faces. The Irishman sighed, and with a nervous gulp, began his narrative. "About four or five years ago, a vengeance demon by the name of Anyanka came to Cordelia back in Sunnydale. 'Parently, some idjit named Xander had just broken her heart-" Angel betrayed a smile at the half-demon seething distaste for Xander's name. "- by cheatin' on her wit' another one of the Scoobies. Cordy happened ta be gripin' about how if everyone's favourite Slayer had never showed up on the Hellmouth, her life wouldn't be such a mess. The vengeance demon heard this li'l tangent, and voila . Cor got her wish. She created an entire alternate dimension sans Buffy. Well the whole lot of 'em ended up dying; Angel, Willow, Xander, Cordelia, the Slayer. Death an' mayhem an' chaos reigned, blah, blah, blah . without tha Slayer around ta keep the balance, things were real bad. Demons ran rampant in Sunnydale, and the situation wasn't much better anywhere else, since the Master was still alive an' kickin'."
"But this other dimension," Angel interrupted. "The alternate Giles and his group destroyed it. They set it right."
"Ah," the half-demon countered wryly, raising a finger in exclamation. "They did manage ta 're-install' this dimension . well obviously, since you're all here . but what if the other Wishverse stuck around too? There's millions of alternate worlds; planes of existence are poppin' up every day. The vamp version of that witch, Willow managed ta cross over once."
"And so did you," Fred added, fidgeting with her glasses. "But why didn't you go to some happy place? Why didn't the Powers That Be let you . rest?"
Doyle shrugged. His features turned cold, impassive, like stone. Angel could see an emotional blockade go up as the embittered, warrior side of the half-demon returned. Every ounce of good humour disappeared; this Doyle was sharp, cynical. "I don't know," he muttered venomously. "Maybe my violent, painful death wasn't enough atonement for tha PTBs. Maybe they thought three years a' hell would do it."
His caustic tirade was cut short by the entrance of Lorne, with Harry and Wesley trailing close behind. The flamboyant green demon strode up to the group, searching the faces of the four, grave-looking individuals. "Where's this miraculously resurrected half-demon anyway?" he inquired. The Host then took notice of a pale stranger, with suspicious blue eyes and a nasty facial scar. "Well you don't smell human," he added jovially, extending one green-skinned hand. "So I'm guessing you're our man."
The Irishman accepted the greeting with suspicion, immediately defensive from the mention of his other, admittedly darker, side. "Doyle." He was gruff, frowning.
"Lorne. My, aren't you a ray of sunshine?" The Host pronounced teasingly, ambling over to his makeshift bar. "I think this boy needs a drink."
The Irishman brightened considerably, though he still wore his mistrust like a proud banner. "Ya getttin' my attention now," he growled, following Lorne to the alcohol supply. "Haven't touched a good Scotch in days."
"Well that's just a sin!" the other demon exclaimed, offering a glass of the amber liquid to Doyle. "It's gonna have to be dry, honey ... ice cubes haven't really been a priority around here lately."
The former Seer mumbled a grateful thanks, and slung back the liquor. Angel, meanwhile, was querying Harry and Wesley. "Have you found anything yet? Any new translations? "
Wesley shook his head. "Nothing we haven't already touched upon. A couple cryptic prophecies, Cordelia's visions, notes on the Beast's recent attacks and a plethora of so-called "signs"."
"Signs?" the vampire questioned as Gunn and Fred joined the group. "What do you mean signs?"
"Like the plagues almost," Harry interjected. "Drought, locusts, or in our case, rats, dead birds and rain of fire. They're generally warnings, from the gods some like to think, of imminent doom and chaos. The balance has been thrown off, something's tipped the equilibrium, hence the kamikaze sparrows, etc."
"What's this all mean?" Angel demanded.
Harry and Wesley exchanged an uneasy glance. Already the vampire could see their minds processing furiously together, a singular unit of demonic lore, linked by a love of knowledge and archaic mysteries, a special secret shared over musty texts and ancient scrolls. "It's the end of the world, Angel," Harry replied softly, wringing her hands. "And if we don't find something soon, hiding under our beds is going to be the best alternative."
"There's gotta be sumthin'!" Doyle protested, approaching the throng with Lorne in tow. "The People Upstairs didn't bring me back just fer kicks ... we're supposed ta be fighin'. Save the world and the whole bit."
The enthnodemonologist sighed deeply, massaging her temples. "How Francis? We have been going through every single text known to man that references The Beast and there's nothing. Angel and the rest of his team got their collective asses kicked last time they faced it. How can we fight when we don't even know what it is or how to stop it?"
The Irishman commenced a passionate retort, but suddenly his words trailed off and his gaze drifted upwards, above all their heads, to some distant horizon. He seemed to have completely forgotten the existence of his companions, or paid them no heed at least. The half-demon frowned inwardly, as if puzzling over a particularly complex problem, his eyes still trained on some invisible spectacle.
The rest all turned, mimicking Doyle, but could spot nothing that deserved such unrequited attention. Angel's former Seer was staring blankly at one of the Hyperion's walls. "What's he lookin' at?" Gunn muttered.
But Doyle wasn't looking at anything.
He was remembering.
(-Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world-)
'They're all comin',' the former Seer thought feverishly. 'A gatherin'. A multitude shall be drawn, Champions of Good, ta restore the balance and slay the Beast. Brought forth from tha Hellmouth to tha City o' Angels, they will come. We might be goin' ta Hell ina hand basket, but we're gonna go down fightin'.'
(-The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned-)
'Some will die, Allen Francis, and many will suffer. There will be sacrifice and terrible pain in store for each, but it is of no consequence; the battle will rage on. For good or evil, the new world will be baptized in blood ...'
"The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity," the half-demon murmured brokenly, unaware that the words had even left his mouth. He blinked rapidly, conscious of his surroundings once more.
"Francis!" Harry roared, gripping her momentarily-stunned ex-husband by the shoulders. "What the hell was that? You completely spaced out on us there!"
A look of sheer panic crossed Doyle's ashen face. "I ... I don't know," he stammered helplessly. His head whipped from side to side, breath coming in short, heaving gasps. "I saw ... dear God ... so much blood ... they're comin', they're comin' ..." The Irishman keeled over in a dead faint, saved from a rough landing by the strong arms of Angel and Gunn.
Fred, Harry and Lorne scrambled to the fallen half-demon. His wiry chest was rising and sinking with breath, Angel could feel the weak but rhythmic thump of his pulse, but his cheeks had taken on a bright red flush and perspiration poured down the Irishman's feverish face. He twitched every so often, limbs seized by some kind of spastic force, the young man's inert form shuddering with a life of its' own. The Irishman continued his inane babble, muttering restlessly about "a gathering" and "the chosen", interspersed with distraught Gaelic utterings.
Harry placed on gentle hand on Doyle's forehead, brushed back the sweat- soaked raven hair. The enthnodemonologist pulled her hand back abruptly, as if burned. Her pretty features were etched with alarm as she regarded her feverish ex-husband. "He's burning up," she announced. "We need to get him into bed right now. Angel, Gunn, get him upstairs ... Wesley, Fred, grab some washcloths, blankets ... Lorne, you're with me. We hit the books, see if this is a Bracken thing or a Powers That Be thing ... and if it's the latter, some higher being is gonna get it right in their godly, omnipotent groin."
The vampire had already proceeded to gather the lifeless half-demon in his arms and with Gunn's help, was carrying the frail figure up to his bedroom. Fred and Wesley has scattered quickly, gathering said-objects, along with water, juice, and painkillers.
Harry exhaled a shaky breath. After losing Francis the first time ... this would be too much. To be tempted, reminded once again of what she couldn't have and what she lost, of the man who was so rudely ripped from her world ...
(-What the hell kind of cosmic joke is this?!-)
"Angel!"
The Warrior turned, still cradling Doyle like a helpless child. "Just stay with him," Harry pleaded, despondent. "That's all we can do for now."
He nodded wordlessly, tightened his grip on the former Messenger and continued up the stairs, with Gunn in tow.
"So what's your expert demonologist opinion?" Lorne inquired, heading over to Angel's extensive library. He skimmed the bindings, selected a few texts dealing with demon biology and made himself comfortable at the table.
Harry joined him. "I don't know, Lorne," she whispered, head in her hands. "It could be anything. Sickness, injuries we didn't catch, shock from all the dimension-hopping. It's just ..."
The Host sighed deeply, squeezing her arm reassuringly. "I know," he said, attempting to sooth, to comfort. (-We're in this together, sweetheart ... all of us. There's our silver lining, as hard as it may be to find.-) "I'm scared too."
They looked at each other for a long moment, bonded by exhaustion, sheer terror and a tiny glimmer of hope. Each one understand their lot in life, accepted the hand they had been dealt; hardened, crusty veterans of an ancient war. Either way, they were going to make a difference, and that offered a little bit of solace. Their silent moment was interrupted, however, by the crashing, frantic arrival of two forgotten figures.
Cordelia and Connor stood at the threshold of the Hyperion, soot-covered and breathless. The boy looked uneasy, apprehensive, glancing up at his surroundings, but Cordelia rushed into the lobby, scanning the entire hotel for ... something.
"Where is he?" she demanded to a rapidly-approaching Harry and Lorne, not seeming to register that the former Mrs. Francis Doyle was back in Angel's hotel. The enthnodemonlogist and the Host swapped a perplexed look, then turned back Cordelia, who was flushed with excitement.
"Where is he? Where's Doyle?"
*********************
Well it would be great to be so strong.
Never needed anybody's help to get along.
But we're so scared of the silence,
and the language that we use.
Oh we're careful and we're cunning,
but we're easily bruised.
I don't want to kid about it,
I'm not bulletproof
Tell me one more time again,
well I guess I didn't hear you. And I don't know all the secrets that you keep inside. I've tried the same thing too,
but they all come pouring out of me when I'm talking to you.
Well it would be great to be so strong.
Never needed anybody else's help to carry on.
Well I'm not waking up each morning,
with forgiveness I can use,
No I'm careless and I'm cruel
But I'm still easily bruised. But I'm so tired of lying about it,
I'm not bulletproof
Oh and I'm not gonna lie about it,
I'm not bulletproof.
Tell me one more time again,
just like I didn't hear you,
Like I don't know what's goin' through your mind,
I do.
I played the same game too.
I know it's hard to stop,
even when you want to.
Now the moon lights up your face.
I can see you're cryin',
You never liked me to see you cry it's true.
I've done some cryin' too.
Know the hardest part about it's
tryin' to hide it from you.
Well it would be great to be so strong.
Never needed anybody else to get along.
But we're so scared of the silence,
and the tricks that we use.
Oh we're careful and we're cunning,
but we're easily bruised.
I don't want to lie about it,
I'm not bulletproof
Well I've finally found a way,
to hide from all your glances.
'Till the waiting game we play is through.
I can't.. what's the use?
When all I really want to do is hide out with you.
***************
"Can't stop what's coming,
can't stop what is on it's way."
**************
"So this be dead boy number two?"
Charles Gunn shot a cool, appraising look at Doyle. The demon hunter leaned back against the counter, his handsome features etched with arrogance. He crossed his arms across a broad, well-muscled chest, lifting an eyebrow incredulously. "You the broodin' type? 'Cause we don't need one more o' those skulking 'round the office."
The half-demon laughed sheepishly. He liked this kid already. Cocky bastard, sure, but there was lots of fire in 'im. "Nah man, my broodin' quotient ain't nuthin' compared ta Angel's." He offered his hand. "Name's Allen Doyle, but I usually jus' go by tha last part."
Gunn returned the hearty shake. "Charles Gunn. Got that hip, singular-name thing goin' on too, so don't be tryin' to call me Charlie or nothin'."
Doyle studied the well-bandaged gash on the fighter's forehead, the sorry, soot-covered state of his once-vibrant garments. He'd obviously just returned from patrolling L.A's devastated streets, and seemed to have found a brawl on his way. "Wouldn't dream of it, friend," the Irishman affirmed affably, turning to Gunn's lovely companion, who was currently speaking to Angel.
She was thin, her frame almost boyish in its' gauntness, with slender, lily- white arms that moved with a life of their own. In conversation they fluttered, danced; possessed some nervous, awkward language. The girl spoke like million theories lay dormant in her mind, itching to be borne from her tongue and find life in words, phrases. Like every breath should be dedicated to the enlightenment of the masses, the exchange of ideas. Her wisdom was rapid, breathless, and her hands flapped as she desperately tried to reveal the beauty and brilliance of the world.
Angel quieted the rambling young woman with a light touch on the shoulder. "Fred," he announced in that calm, collected tone of his. "This is Allen Francis Doyle. He used to work for me, until he-"
"Died," the half-demon supplied helpfully, ignoring the shocked looks from both parties. "Pleased to make your acquaintance." He grasped the hand of a still-dazed Fred.
"Winifred Burkle . but you don't look so dead," she sputtered, her freckled nose crinkling in bewilderment. "Are you a vampire like Angel? 'Cause we're fine with that, if you are. I mean, Cordy's a half-demon now, and Lorne's green, so we're kinda used to it." She self-consciously tucked a piece of wavy brown hair behind one ear.
"I'm actually half-demon, like Cor," Doyle admonished, plunging his hands deep into his jeans' pockets. After three years of battling the forces of evil, often calling on his demon heritage to survive, the Irishman had accepted the merits of his other half, but still hadn't managed to accept its' existence. "An' about three years ago, I got killed in tha line a' duty."
Fred gazed up at him. "Didja go to Heaven?"
Her innocent question caught the former Seer off-guard. Earlier, Angel had skirted around the query, alluded to the fact that he wanted to know; he expected to know eventually, when his resurrected Messenger was ready to tell. The vampire had realized that a trip to Heaven usually didn't result in improved battle skills and vicious scars.
Doyle coughed apprehensively. He shot a slightly panicked look at Angel. "I, um . not exactly, sweetheart." His audience of three drew closer, curiosity, and sympathy, evident in their faces. The Irishman sighed, and with a nervous gulp, began his narrative. "About four or five years ago, a vengeance demon by the name of Anyanka came to Cordelia back in Sunnydale. 'Parently, some idjit named Xander had just broken her heart-" Angel betrayed a smile at the half-demon seething distaste for Xander's name. "- by cheatin' on her wit' another one of the Scoobies. Cordy happened ta be gripin' about how if everyone's favourite Slayer had never showed up on the Hellmouth, her life wouldn't be such a mess. The vengeance demon heard this li'l tangent, and voila . Cor got her wish. She created an entire alternate dimension sans Buffy. Well the whole lot of 'em ended up dying; Angel, Willow, Xander, Cordelia, the Slayer. Death an' mayhem an' chaos reigned, blah, blah, blah . without tha Slayer around ta keep the balance, things were real bad. Demons ran rampant in Sunnydale, and the situation wasn't much better anywhere else, since the Master was still alive an' kickin'."
"But this other dimension," Angel interrupted. "The alternate Giles and his group destroyed it. They set it right."
"Ah," the half-demon countered wryly, raising a finger in exclamation. "They did manage ta 're-install' this dimension . well obviously, since you're all here . but what if the other Wishverse stuck around too? There's millions of alternate worlds; planes of existence are poppin' up every day. The vamp version of that witch, Willow managed ta cross over once."
"And so did you," Fred added, fidgeting with her glasses. "But why didn't you go to some happy place? Why didn't the Powers That Be let you . rest?"
Doyle shrugged. His features turned cold, impassive, like stone. Angel could see an emotional blockade go up as the embittered, warrior side of the half-demon returned. Every ounce of good humour disappeared; this Doyle was sharp, cynical. "I don't know," he muttered venomously. "Maybe my violent, painful death wasn't enough atonement for tha PTBs. Maybe they thought three years a' hell would do it."
His caustic tirade was cut short by the entrance of Lorne, with Harry and Wesley trailing close behind. The flamboyant green demon strode up to the group, searching the faces of the four, grave-looking individuals. "Where's this miraculously resurrected half-demon anyway?" he inquired. The Host then took notice of a pale stranger, with suspicious blue eyes and a nasty facial scar. "Well you don't smell human," he added jovially, extending one green-skinned hand. "So I'm guessing you're our man."
The Irishman accepted the greeting with suspicion, immediately defensive from the mention of his other, admittedly darker, side. "Doyle." He was gruff, frowning.
"Lorne. My, aren't you a ray of sunshine?" The Host pronounced teasingly, ambling over to his makeshift bar. "I think this boy needs a drink."
The Irishman brightened considerably, though he still wore his mistrust like a proud banner. "Ya getttin' my attention now," he growled, following Lorne to the alcohol supply. "Haven't touched a good Scotch in days."
"Well that's just a sin!" the other demon exclaimed, offering a glass of the amber liquid to Doyle. "It's gonna have to be dry, honey ... ice cubes haven't really been a priority around here lately."
The former Seer mumbled a grateful thanks, and slung back the liquor. Angel, meanwhile, was querying Harry and Wesley. "Have you found anything yet? Any new translations? "
Wesley shook his head. "Nothing we haven't already touched upon. A couple cryptic prophecies, Cordelia's visions, notes on the Beast's recent attacks and a plethora of so-called "signs"."
"Signs?" the vampire questioned as Gunn and Fred joined the group. "What do you mean signs?"
"Like the plagues almost," Harry interjected. "Drought, locusts, or in our case, rats, dead birds and rain of fire. They're generally warnings, from the gods some like to think, of imminent doom and chaos. The balance has been thrown off, something's tipped the equilibrium, hence the kamikaze sparrows, etc."
"What's this all mean?" Angel demanded.
Harry and Wesley exchanged an uneasy glance. Already the vampire could see their minds processing furiously together, a singular unit of demonic lore, linked by a love of knowledge and archaic mysteries, a special secret shared over musty texts and ancient scrolls. "It's the end of the world, Angel," Harry replied softly, wringing her hands. "And if we don't find something soon, hiding under our beds is going to be the best alternative."
"There's gotta be sumthin'!" Doyle protested, approaching the throng with Lorne in tow. "The People Upstairs didn't bring me back just fer kicks ... we're supposed ta be fighin'. Save the world and the whole bit."
The enthnodemonologist sighed deeply, massaging her temples. "How Francis? We have been going through every single text known to man that references The Beast and there's nothing. Angel and the rest of his team got their collective asses kicked last time they faced it. How can we fight when we don't even know what it is or how to stop it?"
The Irishman commenced a passionate retort, but suddenly his words trailed off and his gaze drifted upwards, above all their heads, to some distant horizon. He seemed to have completely forgotten the existence of his companions, or paid them no heed at least. The half-demon frowned inwardly, as if puzzling over a particularly complex problem, his eyes still trained on some invisible spectacle.
The rest all turned, mimicking Doyle, but could spot nothing that deserved such unrequited attention. Angel's former Seer was staring blankly at one of the Hyperion's walls. "What's he lookin' at?" Gunn muttered.
But Doyle wasn't looking at anything.
He was remembering.
(-Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world-)
'They're all comin',' the former Seer thought feverishly. 'A gatherin'. A multitude shall be drawn, Champions of Good, ta restore the balance and slay the Beast. Brought forth from tha Hellmouth to tha City o' Angels, they will come. We might be goin' ta Hell ina hand basket, but we're gonna go down fightin'.'
(-The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned-)
'Some will die, Allen Francis, and many will suffer. There will be sacrifice and terrible pain in store for each, but it is of no consequence; the battle will rage on. For good or evil, the new world will be baptized in blood ...'
"The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity," the half-demon murmured brokenly, unaware that the words had even left his mouth. He blinked rapidly, conscious of his surroundings once more.
"Francis!" Harry roared, gripping her momentarily-stunned ex-husband by the shoulders. "What the hell was that? You completely spaced out on us there!"
A look of sheer panic crossed Doyle's ashen face. "I ... I don't know," he stammered helplessly. His head whipped from side to side, breath coming in short, heaving gasps. "I saw ... dear God ... so much blood ... they're comin', they're comin' ..." The Irishman keeled over in a dead faint, saved from a rough landing by the strong arms of Angel and Gunn.
Fred, Harry and Lorne scrambled to the fallen half-demon. His wiry chest was rising and sinking with breath, Angel could feel the weak but rhythmic thump of his pulse, but his cheeks had taken on a bright red flush and perspiration poured down the Irishman's feverish face. He twitched every so often, limbs seized by some kind of spastic force, the young man's inert form shuddering with a life of its' own. The Irishman continued his inane babble, muttering restlessly about "a gathering" and "the chosen", interspersed with distraught Gaelic utterings.
Harry placed on gentle hand on Doyle's forehead, brushed back the sweat- soaked raven hair. The enthnodemonologist pulled her hand back abruptly, as if burned. Her pretty features were etched with alarm as she regarded her feverish ex-husband. "He's burning up," she announced. "We need to get him into bed right now. Angel, Gunn, get him upstairs ... Wesley, Fred, grab some washcloths, blankets ... Lorne, you're with me. We hit the books, see if this is a Bracken thing or a Powers That Be thing ... and if it's the latter, some higher being is gonna get it right in their godly, omnipotent groin."
The vampire had already proceeded to gather the lifeless half-demon in his arms and with Gunn's help, was carrying the frail figure up to his bedroom. Fred and Wesley has scattered quickly, gathering said-objects, along with water, juice, and painkillers.
Harry exhaled a shaky breath. After losing Francis the first time ... this would be too much. To be tempted, reminded once again of what she couldn't have and what she lost, of the man who was so rudely ripped from her world ...
(-What the hell kind of cosmic joke is this?!-)
"Angel!"
The Warrior turned, still cradling Doyle like a helpless child. "Just stay with him," Harry pleaded, despondent. "That's all we can do for now."
He nodded wordlessly, tightened his grip on the former Messenger and continued up the stairs, with Gunn in tow.
"So what's your expert demonologist opinion?" Lorne inquired, heading over to Angel's extensive library. He skimmed the bindings, selected a few texts dealing with demon biology and made himself comfortable at the table.
Harry joined him. "I don't know, Lorne," she whispered, head in her hands. "It could be anything. Sickness, injuries we didn't catch, shock from all the dimension-hopping. It's just ..."
The Host sighed deeply, squeezing her arm reassuringly. "I know," he said, attempting to sooth, to comfort. (-We're in this together, sweetheart ... all of us. There's our silver lining, as hard as it may be to find.-) "I'm scared too."
They looked at each other for a long moment, bonded by exhaustion, sheer terror and a tiny glimmer of hope. Each one understand their lot in life, accepted the hand they had been dealt; hardened, crusty veterans of an ancient war. Either way, they were going to make a difference, and that offered a little bit of solace. Their silent moment was interrupted, however, by the crashing, frantic arrival of two forgotten figures.
Cordelia and Connor stood at the threshold of the Hyperion, soot-covered and breathless. The boy looked uneasy, apprehensive, glancing up at his surroundings, but Cordelia rushed into the lobby, scanning the entire hotel for ... something.
"Where is he?" she demanded to a rapidly-approaching Harry and Lorne, not seeming to register that the former Mrs. Francis Doyle was back in Angel's hotel. The enthnodemonlogist and the Host swapped a perplexed look, then turned back Cordelia, who was flushed with excitement.
"Where is he? Where's Doyle?"
*********************
Well it would be great to be so strong.
Never needed anybody's help to get along.
But we're so scared of the silence,
and the language that we use.
Oh we're careful and we're cunning,
but we're easily bruised.
I don't want to kid about it,
I'm not bulletproof
Tell me one more time again,
well I guess I didn't hear you. And I don't know all the secrets that you keep inside. I've tried the same thing too,
but they all come pouring out of me when I'm talking to you.
Well it would be great to be so strong.
Never needed anybody else's help to carry on.
Well I'm not waking up each morning,
with forgiveness I can use,
No I'm careless and I'm cruel
But I'm still easily bruised. But I'm so tired of lying about it,
I'm not bulletproof
Oh and I'm not gonna lie about it,
I'm not bulletproof.