Summary: Doyle survives the Beacon, but loses his life.

Scratch

"Did you ever wonder what 'scratch' meant,
when people say, 'we'll start from scratch'?
This is scratch."

—Catch, Angel Eyes

I lie on my back and stare at my water-stained ceiling, trying to find pictures in its sickly brown swirls. If I squint my left eye nearly shut and peer through my lashes, the larger stain in the corner takes on the curve of Cordelia's cheek.

Cordelia. She's the only reason I have to get out of bed these days, and I still lie here longer and longer every morning.

I lift one hand to trace the curve of the stain in the air, but the sight of the skin of my arm stops the motion halfway. New skin, pink and taut. No longer painfully raw, so that a mere breeze sends agony coursing through my nervous system, but still tender enough for a careless scratch to feel like a werewolf's claws.

My hand drops back to my stomach, and I wince as the slap stings both palm and stomach more than it should. New skin also covers my stomach. Stomach, chest, arms, legs, face. It's only been three weeks since I didn't die, but a combination of slightly-above-average demon healing and the disgusting healing potions Angel and Cordelia repeatedly forced down my throat made for a somewhat-speedy recovery. I can wear clothes now, which is a big step. And move, as long as it's not quickly.

I know I should get up. It's too easy to remember everything, lying here. Too easy to feel my fist slamming into Angel's face, to taste the tears on Cordy's lips. Too easy to see her expression as I show her my demon side for the first and last time, to hear Angel shouting my name. Too easy to relive it all. Relive the jump and the pain.

Before my feet and hands even touched the Beacon, my skin was on fire, though there were no flames. I landed hard, but before I could regain my balance, a noise reached me through the pain—a creak followed by a twanging snap.

And then I fell.

I landed in a blinding flash of light and a deafening shatter. The pain, somehow, increased.

I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Through the haze in my vision I could make out a face. Another joined it, and I recognized the long, dark blur surrounding it as Cordy's hair. She sobbed my name. I coughed, and it nearly tore my chest apart, but air flooded into my lungs. And then unconsciousness took the pain away.

I woke slowly, but it was still a bad idea. My entire body was on fire. I moaned and turned my head, which was another bad idea. From that point, I concentrated on not moving.

Something shifted by my feet, the vibrations tearing through my entire body. I gritted my teeth.

"Angel! He's awake! I think."

The voice opened my eyes. My vision slowly focused on Cordelia, jumping up and down at the end of a bed. Angel's bed.

"He is awake!"

Angel appeared in the doorway. I could just see him out of the corner of my eye. Cordelia raced around the bed, preparing to throw herself on top of me. Angel caught her.

"What? Let go! He's awake!"

"Don't," he said, quietly but firmly. "You'll hurt him."

She continued struggling, her eyes never leaving me.

I decided to try my voice. "He's right, princess." It came out as a croak, barely understandable, but she stilled. I tried to smile but it hurt too much. "I appreciate the enthusiasm, but it hurts just to breathe right now, and I'm not looking to black out again as soon as I've woken up." I closed my eyes. "Actually, now that I'm awake, blacking out is sounding pretty good."

I heard Angel set her down. "I'll get you some morphine," he said. I didn't hear him leave, though I knew he had.

I opened my eyes again. Cordy knelt beside me, and I slowly turned my head, clenching my teeth.

"I feel wrecked. Do I look as terrible as I feel?" I asked.

She smiled sadly, her hand reaching for my face but stopping just short of touching me. "Probably." Her eyes were haunted, and I decided I didn't want to see a mirror for a very long time.

"What happened?"

"The chain broke," Angel said. Cordy jumped and threw a glare over her shoulder. The vampire moved to stand beside her, a syringe in his hand. "The Beacon fell."

"It's in, like, a million pieces now," Cordy said. "You managed to stay in one, barely. We had to pull a whole lot of glass out of your back and a big, nasty hunk of metal out of your side. I almost threw up. The entire front of your body is basically one big third-degree burn." She gasped. "You're lucky you still have your eyes! What if they'd boiled out?"

"Cordy, I don't think that's helping." Angel shifted his weight.

"At least you still have your hair," she continued, completely ignoring him. "A small miracle in itself."

"The chain broke?" I asked. It was taking me a while to process things, mostly because my head kept trying to explode due to sensory overload. It was nearly as bad as a vision. Not as sharp, but definitely more persistent.

"Yeah, it must have been older than Angel or something." Cordy beamed at me.

For a moment, I felt oddly disappointed. I hadn't actually done anything—the chain had broken, that was all. But then I remembered I was alive—every inch of my body screaming just how painfully alive—and I decided I didn't care.

"Hey, man, did you say you had morphine? 'Cause I think my skin's on fire."

Today takes more effort than normal, but with a sigh I finally manage to roll myself out of bed. I cringe as the large scar in my side and assortment of smaller scars scattered across my back stretch, protesting the sudden movement. I dress slowly in whatever clothes come to hand. I would welcome a scathing fashion reprimand from Cordy today. It'd be better than the mother hen routine she's been playing. It was sweet at first, and I can't deny I enjoyed being pampered by the most gorgeous thing I've ever laid eyes on, but lately it came more from pity than concern, reinforcing what I already know.

I'm useless now.

Angel hired Wesley yesterday. It makes sense. The guy trips over his own feet and wouldn't be able to slay a squirrel, but he's a walking encyclopedia, and he can do more research in an hour than Cordelia and I can do in an entire night. That sort of thing comes in handy. I still don't like him very much.

The walk to the office takes longer now than it used to, and I have plenty of time to pull an Angel and brood, head down and hands in my pockets.

We had our little trio, and everything was fine. Angel moped about, being strong and silent. Cordelia was beautiful and vicious, but for all her abuse, she still spent most of her non-sleeping hours with me. I'd have been more than happy to share the sleeping hours as well, but she was having none of that. Probably better that way.

We kept each other company, all three of us unwilling to admit how lonely we were. And then Wesley bumbled his way in, like some sort of…fourth wheel to our tricycle. Or something.

As I walk into the front office to find Wesley and Cordelia spatting—she reaming him about sucking up to Angel, and he splutteringly defending himself with about as much success as I usually have—I realize he isn't an extra wheel.

He's the replacement.

I stand in the doorway, frozen by this thought.

"Doyle!" Cordelia moves from behind her desk—where she'd been filing her nails—and comes to stand in front of me. I can see her irritation with Wesley in her eyes, and it lifts my spirits. The irritation softens to affection as she places a hand on my arm, and I melt, moving into the room at her gentle leading.

"You're late," she says. Her eyes scan my form. "And more of a walking fashion catastrophe than usual. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I reply, feeling the beginnings of a good mood slip away despite the warmth of her hand seeping through the sleeve of my jacket. "Not sleeping well."

She stops and turns to search my eyes. "Nasty Beacon dreams?"

I nod and put my hands in my pockets, pulling my arm away from her grip in the process. I try to ignore the hurt that springs into her eyes by turning to get some coffee.

There is a desperate hope to her voice when she speaks next that nearly shatters me. "So, now that you're all mobile and clothed, do you want to have that din—"

I hear a thud, and Wesley shouts her name. Even as I turn, Angel bursts through his office door and runs to her. She lies on the floor, her legs twitching as she holds her head with both hands. Wesley falls to his knees on her other side, looking frightened.

And I stand frozen once more. Even though I've never seen this, I know exactly what's happening: she's having a vision. As I stand and watch her hurt, I'm flooded with emotion. Guilt. Panic. Love. Helplessness.

And jealousy.

"Doyle? Doyle! Wake up, you jerk!"

The angry voice, at odds with the gentle hand shaking my shoulder, forced me to open my eyes. Cordy sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over me. She squinted at me while I inched my way to a half-sitting position.

"Are you on morphine?" she asked.

"No, just sleepy." I had nothing better to do, after all.

"Good," she said. And she kissed me.

It was hard and fast and very businesslike, but still more than enough to bring my heart slamming into my throat.

She pulled away and studied me. "Did you feel anything?"

My mouth worked as I tried to say, Oh, yeah.

"'Cause I didn't." She frowned, but before I could get hurt or defensive, she kissed me again. She was longer about it this time, and I almost rallied enough to kiss her back.

She pulled away again, staring hard at me, then made an adorable frustrated noise. "Why isn't it working?" She put her hands on either side of my face and kissed me once more. Despite the fact that my face felt like it was on fire—I was getting used to that feeling—I managed to respond with something other than shock.

This time when she pulled away, I thought her cheeks were a little flushed.

"Anything that time?" I asked, feeling breathless.

She glared at me, and my euphoria wilted. "Take them back."

I blinked.

"I don't want them. Take them back."

"Excuse me, but you're the one who was doing the kissing, remember?"

"Don't play games, Doyle. You know exactly what I'm talking about." She put her hands on my chest—or rather, the raw expanse of nerve endings pretending to be my chest—and shoved herself into a standing position. I valiantly held onto consciousness.

She paced beside the bed. "I thought our kiss meant something, but no! You just used it to turn my brain into a radio antenna for the PTB."

"What?"

She stopped and stared down at me, and when she spoke, she said every word slowly as though addressing an especially thick-headed child. "When you kissed me, you gave me your visions. I just had one a few hours ago." Her face darkened. "It ruined my audition."

My shock must have registered, because her face crumpled.

"You didn't know? You didn't do it on purpose?"

I shook my head, hoping she'd take that information and apply it to the kiss-meaning-something statement of a few seconds ago. I was disappointed.

"You mean I'm stuck with them?" she screeched.

"I—I don't know. I—" I closed my eyes, trying to sort through the implications. The mattress shifted as she sat on the edge of the bed. A thought struck me, and my eyes snapped open. "Did it hurt?"

She nodded. "I never…all this time…" She stopped, bit her lip. "No wonder you drink," she said quietly.

We sat for a few minutes, Cordelia gently tracing circles on the sheet covering my stomach. I didn't have the heart to tell her it felt like she was using a machete instead of her finger.

"So, I gave them to you when I kissed you, yeah?"

She nodded. "Didn't you feel it?"

I smiled. "I just thought I was a really good kisser." Or that it some near-death adrenaline thing had made my senses go all screwy and heightened. Or that it was merely the fact that I was kissing Cordelia. That seemed like enough of a reason at the time.

The corner of her mouth quirked. "Me, too."

I enjoyed the pleasant tingly feeling those words caused for a several seconds before saying, "Wanna keep trying?"

She rolled her eyes but leaned toward me. I was disappointed yet again, though, as she stopped a couple inches away, her eyes critically scanning my face. I felt the goofy smile I wore slip.

"Your face is healing up pretty well," she mused. "You'll probably be a little more craggy, more Marlboro Man, but at least you won't be all deformed." She stood up and tossed her hair over one shoulder. "'Cause you know I wouldn't be caught dead in public with the Phantom of the Opera sans mask."

She left.

As soon as she closed the door I leaned my head back against the pillows, mentally reliving the kissing part of our conversation. When I got to the part about the visions, I waited for the joy and relief to come bubbling up from wherever my soul was hidden. But all I could feel was the emptiness echoing through my skull.

Angel stares at me while Cordy shakes in his arms, but still I can't move. I can only stare and let the roiling emotions inside me fight for dominance on my face.

The vision ends and Cordy slowly sits up, still holding one hand to her forehead. "Demon," she gasps. "Alley. Homeless kid equals dinner."

"Where?" Angel asks with one of the more intense of his many intense expressions. "When?"

"Not till dark," she says, her voice growing stronger. She scribbles on the small pad of paper Wesley hands her. "Here."

Angel slips it in his pocket and helps her to her feet. "You and Wesley figure out what it is and how to kill it." His gaze moves to me, and he jerks his head toward his office door.

I watch Wesley lead Cordy to a chair and fetch her some aspirin and a glass of water. She doesn't look at me, but she's not looking at anything except her lap. I know the feeling.

I follow Angel into his office. He sits behind his desk and levels one of his stares at me. I stare back for a few minutes to keep my pride, but I know I'll never win a silent contest against Angel.

"What did I do?" My voice is hoarse and haunted, and it surprises me. I drop into a chair. "She doesn't deserve this, man."

"And you did?"

"Yes!" I snap. "You know I did."

He stares at me some more. I glare back.

"You saved them, Doyle." There's an admiration in his eyes that makes shame slide down my spine, sticky and cold. I stand and pace.

"Don't do that," I growl. "I didn't do anything. The bloody thing fell. No noble self-sacrifice involved, no redeeming death. No one died, remember?"

"That's my point."

"No, I mean, I didn't die. You know, during the whole heroic rescue thing."

"You were willing to."

That stops me for a moment, but as we look at each other across the desk, I realize something.

"I'm expendable." He sits back like I've slapped him, but I feel strangely calm. "And you're not. It wasn't heroic; it was practical." My smile is bitter.

"But think about it." Angel leans forward, his voice urgent. "You told me the visions were your punishment. They're gone now. So doesn't that mean you don't need to be punished anymore? That you're done? Free?"

The anger returns. "So now it's her turn? What'd she ever do? She may have been on the highest of high horses, but that ain't a cosmic sin."

"I still think there's a reason, Doyle. It doesn't have to be punishment."

I snort. "I should be dead. There's your reason."

"Do you want to be?"

I look away. "No."

"You saved them Doyle. You're free. You've atoned." His voice is quiet. Earnest. He believes what he's saying so much that I can almost believe him, too.

Almost.

"Yeah, well, I don't feel atoned," I say.

"I understa—"

I cut him off. "I know. You know all about redemption. You're Redemption Guy. You've spent the last hundred years pondering it from all angles. Stop trying to shove your redemption complex off on everyone else.

"It had nothing to do with redemption, Angel. Nothing to do with the Listers. By that point I'd forgotten all about them. It had everything to do with you wasting yourself on some smalltime event." I'm suddenly very tired. I can feel my shoulders sagging beneath the weight of my jacket. The skin along my hairline itches. "Why do you think the Powers That Be sent you a seer anyway? You're here for something big. Maybe several something bigs. Me? I was just a messenger."

He stares at me, the shock evident on his face.

"Go fight your Good Bloody Fight," I say tiredly. "Leave me alone."

I walk out.

I perform the rite, say the words, light the fire—and wait. Nothing happens. The arch that leads to the Oracles stubbornly stays solid brick.

I can't say I'm surprised. They never would have let me in when I still had the visions—the dubious honor of being a messenger from the Powers That Be. Now I'm just a half-demon with gambling debts and a fondness for alcohol. So no, I'm not surprised that nothing happens.

I am, however, very pissed off.

However dubious an honor the visions were, to me they had become exactly that—an honor. I cursed them in the beginning, as they tended to interrupt perfectly good pity parties with blinding pain, but over the last few months I began to, if not welcome them—I never did enjoy the "blinding pain" part—at least accept them.

And then I began to need them.

They pulled me out of my self-dug pit of loathing and gave me something to live for, in a sense, by hooking me up with Angel and Cordy. They gave me something to strive for. I was lost between the human world and the demon world, and they gave me a path to walk.

They gave me back my Self. And now they're gone.

I throw the lighter in my hand at the arch. The cheap plastic shatters, splashing butane across the brick. Then I hear someone screaming and realize it's me. I pound on the wall with my fists.

"Let me in! You have to give them back! You can't do this to her! To me!"

The image of Cordelia, her body wracked with pain, floats behind my eyes. I stop beating the wall. I turn my back to the arch and lean against it, slowly sliding to the ground. My hands throb and smell like lighter fluid.

"What am I supposed to do now?"

There is no answer, of course, though I can't help holding my breath, just in case. I sit at the base of the arch, listening, waiting, trying not to cry as I watch my life crumble around me for the second time. When my hands stop shaking, I stand and leave, not bothering to pick up the pieces of red plastic littering the ground.

As I make my way back to the surface, to the world, I realize I don't need an answer from them. I already know.

The sun is bright and cheerful, mocking me as I walk to my apartment. Once there, I pull a worn duffle bag from the depths of my closet and fill it with a week's worth of clothing. I find my favorite picture of Harry and I in a dresser drawer, buried beneath my socks, and toss it in as well. Taped to the underside of the drawer is a manila envelope full of cash.

I'd been saving what I could of my take from our cases so I could pay off some of my bigger debts. Make a clean start of it. Make this thing I had going with Angel and Cordelia stick.

So much for that.

I pull fifty bucks out of the envelope, stuff it in my pocket, and throw the rest in the bag. It's not a lot, but it'll get me where I'm going. Wherever that is.

I leave the bag on the bed and go back to the office before someone comes looking for me. They'll try to stop me, tell me they want me around. But they won't say they need me. I've heard Cordy's stories about her ex, and I won't be Angel Investigations' Xander. I won't be the useless tagalong. My tie to them has been stripped away through my own ignorant action.

I just wanted to kiss her once before I died. That's all. If I'd known I'd still be alive today, I doubt I'd have found the courage.

Funny how the only brave thing I've ever done has destroyed any chance I had to be happy here.

I turn a corner and the office comes into view. I pause and look at the door, at the steps, remembering the night I saved Cordy from a vampire. Her attitude toward me shifted after that. I began to have hope, something I hadn't felt in years.

I feel so old. Twenty-five and ancient.

I know I need to go in, play nice for the rest of the day. I'd rather go back two blocks to the bar on the corner. I haven't been drunk since that guy Oz was here.

I cross the street and climb the stairs, slowly pushing the door open.

"There he is!" Cordy shouts, springing out of a chair. The book that was in her lap spills onto the floor, and the sound of scrunching paper makes Wesley yelp and dive after it.

She is annoyed, but not overly so. No more than usual. She steers me into a chair and drops a gigantic book onto my lap. I grunt.

"As punishment for disappearing, you get the massive one written in Chinese or Korean or whatever. Look for anything with three eyes."

I open the book and start turning pages.

"So?"

I look up.

She makes an impatient gesture. "Where were you?"

I run my fingers down a page while I gaze at her, some part of my brain taking childlike delight in the fact that my fingertips are nearly back to normal sensitivity. I can feel the rough grain of the paper.

"I needed a walk. I have a lot of…near-death-experience issues to work through."

"Right," she says in what passes for her thoughtful tone of voice. "After Buffy died she went all psycho for a while. I can see how that would screw you up." She points a finger at me. "But you keep up this Angel imitation too much longer, and I will give you something to brood about. Understood?"

I smile. "I'm almost done. Promise."

"Good." She beams at me, making my stomach flip. Three months, and it still happens every time. "I want my dinner."

I can't keep the sorrow and pain from my face, but it doesn't matter, because she's already turned away.

We sit in silence, the only sound the turning of ancient pages. I'm barely looking at mine anymore, instead indulging myself in imagining what Cordelia will do when she finds out I'm gone.

She'll be angry, I know. More than likely, she'll hate me. For giving her the visions, for leaving. But I like to think that she'll cry, too, at least in private. That she'll miss me, a little.

At least she'll never forget me. The visions should see to that. They'll have her cursing me for the rest of her life.

I'll take what I can get.

I lift my head to gaze at her, and my resolve wavers for a moment. But I can't stay. I can't. I know if I do, I'll wind up hating them all.

"Hello," Wesley says softly. "I think I may have found it."

Cordelia groans. "It's about time." She slams her book on the desk and moves to stand behind Wesley, looking over his shoulder. "Yep, that's it."

Wesley's eyes flick rapidly across the page. "Looks pretty basic. Stab. Decapitate. Break its neck." He shrugs. "Nothing Angel won't be able to handle."

"Good," Angel says. We all jump and turn to look at his office door, where he leans against the frame.

"I'm getting you a bell," Cordy says.

I nearly choke on my tongue as I try not to laugh. Half a chortle escapes despite my efforts.

As they slide across me, Angel's eyes are cold and troubled. "It's getting dark. Wesley, Cordelia, grab some weapons. Doyle, you stay here. You're not one hundred percent yet, and I don't want you getting hurt."

It's been this way since the Beacon.

"Why do I have to go?" Cordy whines. Her hands protectively clutch the fabric of her skirt. "Last time I got splattered."

"I need you to make sure we're in the right place. I don't want to be at the wrong end of the alley and miss the whole thing."

She grumbles but follows Wesley downstairs to the weapons cabinet.

Angel looks at me. I stare back. Neither of us speaks. I wonder what he thinks of me now, and if he'll be relieved when they come back and I'm not here.

Then his face dissolves into what I realize is guilt. He opens his mouth to say something, but Cordelia and Wesley reappear. Wesley tosses Angel a sword, nearly slicing his own leg open in the process. Angel catches it easily, and as he shifts his grip on the hilt, he looks at me and swallows.

I speak before he can, afraid he might somehow be able to change my mind. "The good fight, yeah?" I manage a grin as I tilt my head toward the door. "Go on."

He gives me one of his small smiles and strides into the night.

The others follow him out the door, and Cordy lightly touches my shoulder as she passes. "See you later, Doyle."

I want to jump out of my chair and kiss her again, until her knees buckle and her breath comes in ragged gasps. I settle for saying, "Bye, princess."

The door closes behind them and stillness settles around me. I sit unmoving for a few minutes before slowly standing and walking into Angel's office. I pull my book of names out of my jacket pocket and lay it on his desk. I don't need it anymore. Finding a pad of paper and a pen, I scrawl a note.

This might come in handy. Sorry I can't stick around, but I figured it was time I set off on my own. Started from scratch, you know? Yeah, you probably do. Better than me.

Take care of Cordelia.

Make up something nice to say to Wesley on my behalf.

And thanks, Angel. For everything. Who knows? Maybe you're right.

Just one more thing, now. The hardest.

I sit in her chair and close my eyes. I can smell her, feel her, taste her. I start to write.

Cordy. I'm sorry. For the visions, for leaving, for driving you crazy since the day we met. I hope someday you can forgive me.

And I hope that you come to appreciate the visions the way I did. They'll change you, if you let them. In a good way. They did me.

I love you. And I'm not just saying that.

Doyle

When I reread them, the words seem flat, useless, trite. But they're all I have. I've already given her everything I had to give.

I fold the note in half and tape it shut, then write her name on the outside. I gently place it on her desk, nudging the corners until it lays straight. I touch my fingers to my lips and then press them to her name.

Then I leave.

The night is quiet for L.A. I walk toward my apartment to collect my bag. After that I'll go to the bus station and catch a late bus east.

I've heard a lot of nice things about Atlanta. As good a place as any.

End.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Non-profit organization.

Thanks to nyohah for the beta.