Feedback: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?
Summary: AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.
Author's Note: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. Italics indicate thought and the occasional flashback.
A/N Part 2: Yeesh, this chapter turned out huge. Also, not sure how to go about finding a beta, so I'm looking here :D It shouldn't be too hard, I usually have a good eye for punctuation and such, but I've been making some embarrassing typos as of late. Just e-mail me if anyone is interested.
June 12, 2005 8: 22 PMThe Hyperion Hotel
The roof of the Hyperion had many benefits. The lights, for one. The City of Angels shone at night, far more beautiful than anything Los Angeles could muster in the daytime hours. Little pinpoints of white and yellow glow, coming from every type of building imaginable. Churches and porn studios, corporate empires and homeless shelters, they all looked equally lovely under the blanket of the L.A. night. Angel would have said that the lights in the darkened city rivaled the stars in the black sky, except all of that illumination drowned out any starlight. In imitating the stars, L.A. had lost them forever. The detective found something bittersweet in that and he'd caught himself brooding on it more than once.
There was also the total lack of people on rooftops. Angel enjoyed that immensely. It wasn't that he hated people, and no, he was not as antisocial as a serial killer, which had been implied more than once by a couple of different individuals. It was just that he'd lived in Angelus' shadow since the day he was born and instead of going out and learning the skills necessary to connect with people, Angel had been busy watching his brother do that. He'd never had any real reason to learn to communicate with others because everyone he'd met had always been involved with Angelus, dammit. Darla had been the exception and Darla had turned out disastrously.
Unfortunately, Angel now had to make it on his own and he was still, as Cordelia had so eloquently put it, "as socially retarded as ever." But he was starting getting better. Doyle and Cordelia said so. Being a detective forced him to come in contact with other human beings outside of his tiny circle of friends and he had to admit that it was doing him a world of good. Still, there were times that Angel preferred to just be alone.
To other people, the spiky-haired brunette's habit of perching on the edges of rooftops was very disconcerting, but Angel had never felt any need to worry. He knew his own body. He knew what it could do. The life of a hit man is one that tends to involve walking softly and balancing carefully. Angel had kept himself in good shape even if his life no longer depended on it. The edges of buildings? Good places to sit and think. Snakes, spiders, or crocodiles? Interesting pets and great conversation starters. Being trapped in small, dark spaces? Irritating, but a good excuse to get night vision goggles. It had occurred to Angel more than once that most of the things that frightened other people did nothing to rattle him. That's one of the few perks, I guess.
"Go out there!" he heard Cordelia hiss to Doyle. Angel knew from experience that they would be standing just outside of the door to the rooftop. There was a small vent on the wall next to the door that connected to the outside world, and on windless nights like tonight, it was possible to hear someone at the door very clearly.
"No! You know he sits on that ledge! What if I startle him or something and he falls off!" Doyle's Irish accent thickened slightly in his annoyance. Angel shifted on the ledge, smirking in amusement.
"You're just scared to tell him that you didn't learn anything about those P.T.B. people! Quit being a baby and get out there!"
"Yeah? What have you done today, Princess, besides wring your hands and mutter about how they were probably," Doyle pitched his voice high, " 'torturing him right now and that bastard Angelus will probably send us an ear in a box or something gross like that and who will give me a job if Angel gets all dismembered!'" Doyle's voice returned to normal. "You're so worried, you go talk to him first!"
"You guys," Angel called out, deciding to give them a break, "come on out."
There was total silence from the door for a moment, then it opened so Doyle and Cordelia could walk out sheepishly. "It's creepy when you do that," Cordelia muttered, coming to stand by him.
"How do you do that?" Doyle asked, following her.
"I'm superhuman," Angel responded dismissively. "What's up?"
"Don't you 'what's up' us, mister!" Cordelia scowled. Nobody scowled like Cordy. "Some mysterious guy comes and visits and then you go off to see your brother? Something huge is up, and everyone knows it."
"She's right, man," Doyle added, leaning on the ledge. "You've been lurking out here for a long time now. You're deep in thought about something nasty."
Angel was surprised to find out that time had moved so quickly. He'd originally only planned to watch the sunset after adding the pictures to his Connor Book, but had gotten caught up in watching L.A. come alive in the darkness. "Sorry."
The sober apology seemed to deflate Cordelia's righteous anger. "How bad is it?"
Angel held Cordelia in the same loving, protective place that he held his sister. He didn't want her to know how scared he was. "I have to go away for awhile. He didn't say anything about bringing me back full-time, though."
"What is it?" Doyle asked, face unreadable.
"He didn't say anything about that, either. I'm leaving a ten o'clock tomorrow night. I think he wants to get me where I'm going as soon as he can, to make sure I don't skip town."
"Maybe you should," the Irishman suggested quietly. His eyes were filled with worry. Angel stared at him in disbelief for a moment. Doyle understood what Angelus was capable of and knew what could happened if Angel said no.
"He would come after you guys."
"I'm up for a road trip!" Cordelia said brightly, nudging Doyle with her elbow. "Doyle, wouldn't a road trip be fun?"
"Yeah, I hear, uh, Canada's nice this time of year," Doyle smiled.
Angel smiled too, despite his sadness. Without his friends, there was no way that he would be where he was. He needed them, and wondered if he was actually co-dependent or just very lonely. Shortly after Angel had taken his last (supposed) job for Angelus, he'd seen the bottoms of more bottles in a two-month period than in his entire life. He'd been in the process of drowning his sorrows yet again and rambling about his ex-girlfriends, in the way that lonely drunks are prone to doing. That was when he'd first seen Doyle. More specifically, Doyle had gotten up from the corner booth and stared hard at Angel for a very long moment, before telling the drunken brunette that they needed to talk.
-Why?" Angel slurred, focusing his bloodshot eyes on the shorter man.
"Because I've been dreaming about you," was Doyle's completely serious response.
Now, Angel could work up an impressive drunk when he wanted to, and now was one of those times, but he was lucid enough to remember that he was not really in a good position to start a relationship. Crappy apartment, no job, rarely sober. Also, he remembered that open-mindedness aside, when he took some home they tended to be a.) blonde and b.) female.
How does the 'No offense, I'm sure you're nice, but I'm not a good person to date and also I'm not gay' speech go again? Angel thought fuzzily, before realizing he had just said it all in his head. Opening his mouth to repeat it out loud, he'd been interrupted by the Irishman.
"You dolt, I'm not trying to get a date with you." Doyle sounded slightly exasperated. "But c'mon, walk with me. Let some nice smog sober you up a little and then we can have a discussion that doesn't involving grunting."-
And that's exactly what happened. Doyle had explained to Angel that he wasn't crazy, but he did occasionally have dreams, "visions, if you like", that showed him people.
"I don't know what it is, really," Doyle had confessed. "I'm not psychic and I can't let ya talk to your dear old dead granny, but I see people sometimes and know that they need help. I saw you. And you, my staggering friend, need a world o' help."
At first Angel had thought that Doyle was either a nutcase or a scam artist, but Cordelia had proven him wrong. Very wrong, in fact. Doyle had seen Cordelia the next night and insisted that Angel come along to check out the situation. Hungover and lacking anything better to do with his time, Angel had agreed to come. Cordelia was instantly recognizable as one of Buffy's former classmates and sort-of-not-really friend. Almost pathetically eager to see a familiar face even said face had no idea he was there, Angel had followed Cordelia as she followed a (much) older man into a huge mansion.
-He and Doyle crouched outside the bushes. The sharp branches were scratching him painfully and his knees were getting muddy. Not that it would show up well on his black jeans, but it was the principal of the thing. He would need to take even longer tonight to make sure everything was clean and orderly.
"Okay," Doyle observed after a moment, staring up at the mansion. "You have to break in."
"What!" Angel hissed, irritation rising up into the level of pissed off. "I am not breaking into a house that probably has a thousand dollar security system so I can catch an old acquaintance making out on a couch with an old guy! That's just disturbing to think about!"
"She's in trouble," Doyle murmured, meeting Angel's eyes with his calm blue stare. "When the girl turns up missing tomorrow or the next day, how will you feel then?"
"You're nuts." He didn't need jail time on top of all the other crap he was dealing with. It was too damn much, and he was going home. "You break in, if you're so convinced of her impending doom."
"I'm no' the one who's life has no purpose," Doyle responded, Irish accent becoming heavier as his emotions became more turbulent. Later on, Angel, whose family had moved from the Emerald Isle when he was one, would refer to the Doyle's magically thickening accent as 'getting his Irish up'.
Angel's brows drew together in surprise and a little bit of hurt. "That's a little harsh," he muttered reproachfully. "Just because I haven't gotten myself in order-"
"Left on your own, you'd die of alcohol poisoning," Doyle stated matter-of-factly. "Just like left on her own, that lovely little Cordelia girl is going to end up as one more cold case in the police files. Your choice, man." With that, Doyle got up, dusted himself off, and walked back to the car.
The bushes they'd been crouching in were just outside the mansion, looking in through the fence but just out of view of the guardhouse. Angel glanced at the guard. It was one man, sort of plump, who was ignoring the security monitors in favor of watching something on the small, portable TV. Professionally speaking, Angel could have taken him out in a heartbeat.
It was then that Liam O'Brien, renamed Angel and nicknamed the Angel of Death, had a revelation. He had all of the skills and knowledge of a professional enforcer, assassin, and all-around bad ass. But he could use those skills that he had so painfully acquired for good. To help people. He was not sure if it was his own depression or the whiskey that he'd been consuming like air that had prevented him from realizing this earlier.
"My God," Angel muttered. "I could do it." He could. Or he could try, at least. That could be his redemption. Of course, it was impossible to get back the years he'd lost or replace the lives he'd taken in service of Angelus. But maybe he could pay back some of the debt. Maybe the guilt that made his shoulders slump and his eyes hollow could be lessened or even alleviated. Maybe he could be the good guy, for once.
"Okay," the brunette man said, staring at his new sidekick in the car, "how the hell do I do this?"-
What followed was this: Angel performed an impressive bit of breaking and entering, just in time to see a Mr. Russell Winters coming at Cordelia with a knife. Angel, being an old pro at dealing with knife-wielding assassins, kicked Mr. Winters through a window. Cordelia had been ready to sell her first born to him in thanks, and together they came up with a suitable story to tell the police. The bodies of several different girls from various decades were found in refrigerators in the basement of Mr. Winters' home. He would have been facing a staggering amount of criminal charges, but his fall from the window had resulted in severe spinal injury and brain damage, tragically leaving the millionaire in a vegetative state. "A real shame, that," Doyle had remarked in satisfaction.
Eventually, mostly due to Cordelia's nagging, Angel had opened Angel Investigations for business. The feeling of having friends, and a purpose, and a job, could still make Angel smile three years later.
"I appreciate the offer, guys, really," he held up his hands to stop the protests, "but it's better I do this. I already said I would. And you know how Angelus gets about people who break deals."
June 13, 2005
9:02 PM
The lobby of the Hyperion Hotel
Cordelia and Doyle watched as Angel carried the last of his suitcases to his car, which had been moved from its normal spot to a more accessible one directly outside. Neither of them had offered to help. Helping would make Angel's leaving more real.
He might have thought that he was the only one who had become a better person because of the formation of this trio, but he'd have been wrong there. Doyle and Cordelia both felt more useful working for Angel then they had at any point before.
Francis Doyle had avoided responsibility for as long as he could, especially after he and his wife had gotten divorced. But after dreaming of a person who was drowning in his own guilt and pain for a week straight, it was hard not to seek out the source. And, the Irishman was surprised to learn, it wasn't so bad, being responsible. Making his money from working instead of gambling and betting on the dog races was something he hadn't done for a long while. It was worth it, though.
Cordelia had not been ready to deal with being poor. Damn IRS. Damn IRS raids. She was ashamed to admit-not that she ever would actually say it out loud or anything-that she would have slept with Russell Winters if it meant not having to bring food home from parties so she could eat it later on. But Angel, Mr. Salty Goodness himself, had saved her. He had discovered he was good at saving people, and Cordelia felt that she did her part by pointing out the obvious and boosting morale. And sometimes filing. How cool was it to basically earn money for hanging around the office and typing? Of course, they also helped to protect people and nab cheating spouses and stuff, which was of the good.
Angel was leaving them. They understood that his pain was something that they couldn't comprehend completely, that his guilt was something that he would never rid himself of fully, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there before the two of them had come along. Angel was their pet project, and if his mission was to save people, then their mission was to help him save those people and himself in the process.
But even they understood Angelus. It seemed like when you knew one twin, you would inevitably come to know the other. So it didn't matter how much Doyle joked and Cordelia pouted, Angel's employees both knew that their boss and friend was leaving them and that he might be gone for months. They knew he might not come back at all.
"So," Angel said, arms crossed and standing in the doorway, looking a bit like a puppy that knew he was in trouble but was trying to be cute enough to avoid a scolding, "I guess this is goodbye."
That was Cordelia's breaking point. She flung herself across the lobby and hugged him so hard that it knocked the breath from his lungs. "This is not goodbye!" the pretty brunette protested loudly. "Goodbye means we won't see you again and you are most definitely coming back. This is more 'See you later, I'm bringing home presents'. Hopefully, Senor Creepy is sending you someplace where you can at least get a decent tan. I'm rearranging your closet while you're gone. Prepare to return to bright colors and flannel." Her point made, Cordelia released him, sniffling. Angel wiped his eyes quickly, trying not to make it seem obvious.
Doyle and Angel embraced in a much more manly fashion, but they still had that irritating moisture leaking from their eyes. "Can't say whether or not we can keep on with the people-saving without you, friend o' mine," Doyle muttered as he and Angel separated.
Angel frowned at his friend. Doyle had confided in the detective that he didn't think he had much of a shot at being the big savior. -"I'm more of a wisecracking sidekick, really."-
"You'd probably be better at it then me," Angel smiled, Doyle's image blurring in his vision. He was not going to cry. He was most definitely NOT going to cry. "You're not weighed down with the weight of the world."
"You're the champion, Angel, not me." Doyle grinned lopsidedly.
Seriously and soberly, Angel responded, "You never know until you're tested." Looking down, he shook his head and hugged them both again. Amidst thinly controlled tears and promises to call if it was safe, Angel left his hotel. He took one last look at his home, his office, the only thing that was well and truly his.
He got to the freeway before the tears finally spilled down his face. Better to get it out now, the detective thought as he wiped his face. No weakness in the lion's den. By the time he was at Wolfram and Hart, it looked as if he'd never been crying at all.