Bwaha, you didn't get me this time, Writer's Block! Well, okay, maybe a little. But not for long! Anyway, happy Year of the Tiger, all! For supreme cuteness on this subject, go here: HeWhoWalksWithTigers. deviantart. com/art/Happy-Year-of-the-Tiger-154034897 (take out the spaces). Now then, applause to everyone who caught the Andrew cameo in the last chapter (that was just fun), and on the subject of the interloper at the cliffhanger (whose identity many of you lovely reviewers also guessed), I would invite you to read on.
Buffy and Angel jumped apart and twisted to face the intruder. Leaning against the wall near the desk, his arms crossed, was a dark-haired man of fairly average build who, judging by his outfit, had even worse color-coordinating skills than Xander. Before they could say anything, he spoke up again, his attention on Angel. "You'd be Angel, I presume?" His blue eyes moved to Buffy next. "An' quite the lovely lady-friend ye've got there. The Slayer, if I'm not mistaken," he said with a courteous nod. Then his nonchalant expression changed to one of incredulity and resentment as his gaze fixed back on Angel. "I 'ave to say, though," he added, jerking his thumb in the direction of Angel's fridge, "I think they must've lied about ye bein' Irish, 'cause yer options as far as alcoholic beverages go are vastly disappointin'."
"Who are you?" Angel growled through clenched teeth.
"Whoa," said the man indignantly, holding up his hands, "can we ease off on the intimidation fer a mo'?"
Buffy and Angel watched him stonily. He stepped away from the wall and looked from one to the other. "The name's Doyle."
"And you're here because…?" said Buffy, arms folded across her chest.
"I've been sent," said Doyle with more than a touch of irony, "by the Powers that Be."
"The what?" asked Angel.
"Look, I don't exactly know," said Doyle. "Whoever they are, they seemed to think I'd make a good messenger. I get these…visions—meanin' great skull-crackin' migraines that come with pictures."
"You don't smell human," said Angel. "How do we know you and these 'Powers that Be' are the good guys?"
"Well, that's a bit like the pot callin' the kettle black, now, isn't it, vamp-man?" said Doyle indignantly. "An' it just so 'appens that I'm very much 'uman." He shuddered and wrinkled his nose, then sneezed violently. For a few seconds, his face turned green and was covered in blue spikes, but he quickly shook it off and his human appearance returned, slightly paler than before. "On my mother's side," he clarified. He glanced at Buffy, suddenly very tense.
Buffy rolled her eyes. "Great," she said. "Half-demon, good guy. We've got it. Let's get back to what you're doing here."
"The matter more at hand is really what he's still doin' 'ere," said Doyle, nodding at Angel.
Buffy and Angel both stared at him, taken aback, and Buffy, struggling to force down the feeling of unease that was beginning to well up within her, glanced quickly at Angel, who asked, "What are you talking about?"
"I'm fuzzy on the details—good thing, too, 'cause if the backstory visions'd been long enough to explain it all, they probably would've killed me—but I suppose ye might consider it a promotion."
"What?" said Buffy.
"'E was sent 'ere to help ye, and 'e did. Only thing is, ye can 'elp yerself now, but there're a lot of people out there who can't, and, funnily enough, a fair number of them can be found in the City of Angels."
"You're telling me I'm supposed to go to Los Angeles?" said Angel.
"The Slayer knows 'er way backward an' forward across the battlefield now," said Doyle. "Ye did what ye came 'ere to do. It's time to move on. She's a big girl, an' she's hero enough to handle this town on 'er own—an' ye've become hero enough yerself that someone upstairs thinks ye're ready to be the knight in shinin' armor fer someone else's kingdom."
The effect of his words on them was remarkably similar to that of an unexpected blow to the face.
"I'll just be off to the nearest pub while I let the two of ye think that over, then," said Doyle spiritedly into the stunned silence. With that, he left them there.
[o]
The heated passion that had rushed them to the apartment in each other's arms mere minutes ago had been quite thoroughly gutted by the unexpected visitor, and for what felt like a very long time, they simply stood frozen, staring blankly at the place where Doyle had been.
Angel was the first to snap out of it. He looked at the floor, the wall, his shoes, and finally, unwillingly, at Buffy. She still hadn't moved. "Buffy," he said, taking a step towards her.
Buffy jumped and looked around at him and swiftly away again, twisting her hands together in agitation. "I, um. I think I'd better get going," she told the wall as color flooded into her cheeks. "Mom, worrying, you know."
Angel's heart sank. Her excuse wasn't true and they both knew it. Joyce knew very well that their plan had been to spend most of the weekend together after prom. She might not have been delighted about it, but she hadn't voiced her objections. "Yeah," he said unhappily, eyes back on the floor, a hard lump in his throat. He winced when he heard the door shut behind her, the sound oddly magnified in his ears.
[o]
When Buffy got home, she was too dazed for it to occur to her to go in through her bedroom window (though, even if it had, her prom dress would probably have made it too complicated to be worth it anyway), with the result that Joyce, who had been cleaning the kitchen, heard her close the front door and came to investigate.
"Buffy, hi!" she said, surprised. "You're back earlier than I expected. Where's Angel?"
Buffy turned slowly to face her, unable muster the energy necessary to force a smile and pretend all was well.
Joyce saw Buffy's glum expression and her face fell. "Oh, honey, what's wrong?"
For a moment, Buffy didn't react at all. Then, without warning, she burst into tears.
Somehow, they managed to get from the front hall to the living room couch, where Joyce held Buffy while she cried into her shoulder.
[o]
To say that Willow was surprised when Mrs. Summers called her the morning after prom would be an understatement. Her shock turned instantly to concern, however, when Mrs. Summers explained what had happened when Buffy got home the night before. Twenty minutes later, Willow was at 1630 Revello Drive, where she was immediately sent to Buffy's room by her very worried mother.
Willow found Buffy curled up on her bed in her pajamas, her eyelids red and puffy. Buffy looked over at the door and sat up when she saw who was there. "Okay, I'm nominating her for the Best Mom Ever award," she said with a small, tremulous smile.
"Are you okay?" asked Willow, encouraged enough by Buffy's attempt at humor to move forward and sit on the end of the bed. "Your mom didn't say what was wrong."
"She doesn't know," said Buffy, shaking her head. "I was kind of in shock last night. I didn't know what to tell her."
"Is it Angel?"
Buffy only looked gloomily at her in response.
Willow's eyes widened in horror. "He's not bad again, is he? 'Cause I thought that couldn't happen anymore and—"
"No!" said Buffy, a little more loudly than she'd intended. "No, he's Angel. It's nothing like that."
"Oh," said Willow, relieved. Then she frowned, confused. "What is it, then? I mean, everything seemed fine yesterday."
"It was," said Buffy miserably.
"Did something happen?"
Buffy was silent for a moment, going over her memories of the previous night. "When Angel and I got to his place," she began slowly, "there was already someone there."
"What do you mean?" asked Willow, perplexed.
"It was this guy—Doyle, I think. He was waiting for us."
"How come?"
"He—he said that Angel's supposed to go to L.A.," said Buffy, her voice breaking slightly.
"Well, what did Angel say?" asked Willow, who couldn't imagine Angel doing anything that would take him farther than five miles away from her best friend.
"Nothing," said Buffy. "But neither did I, I mean, we were both too surprised."
"Have you talked to him yet?"
"No," Buffy sighed. "I need to."
[o]
After brief reflection, Wesley decided not to go to the library to practice the techniques Angel had been teaching him. He had no desire to make a spectacle of himself in front of Mr. Giles; the man's respect for him was already strained enough as it was. So, instead, he went to the mansion. He fully expected the place to be empty and was therefore quite astonished to find Angel there when he arrived, not to mention rather alarmed at the way he was pulverizing the punching bag. His ego sustained a considerable blow at the realization of just how much Angel held back when they sparred.
"Angel," he said cautiously.
No response. Angel only continued to lay into the punching bag—more ferociously than before, if that was even possible.
"Angel," said Wesley again, more loudly.
Still Angel didn't answer, but then a particularly violent strike sent the punching bag flying off its chain. It landed with a dull thud several yards away. Though Angel was, as usual, completely devoid of such human signs of exertion as heavy breathing and perspiration, his posture was extremely rigid. It seemed that whatever tension he had been trying to let out would not be gotten rid of so easily. "You know anything about the Powers that Be?" he asked suddenly.
Wesley blinked, thrown off by the unexpected question. "Erm, a little, yes," he said. "I've run across the phrase a few times in my research. Specific information tends to be vague, but the general consensus is that they are a powerful, if somewhat removed, force of good. The most extensive reference I've seen proposes that they are, in fact, the very Powers that are ranked sixth in De Coelesti Hierarchia—that is to say, the hierarchy of angels. Pure speculation, of course, but quite intriguing, nonthele—" He stopped abruptly, catching the expression on Angel's face. He cleared his throat. "Er, why?" he asked sheepishly.
"Half-demon named Doyle was at my apartment last night. Said he works for them."
"Ah," said Wesley, frowning. "What did he want?"
"For me to go to L.A."
Wesley stared. "But…," he began, bewildered, "didn't that other fellow, Whistler, I believe, send you to Buffy?"
"Yeah," said Angel, beginning to pace. "That's why I need to know if this is real."
"I see. Why did this Doyle want you to go to L.A.?"
"To help people." He swallowed. "Because Buffy doesn't need me to fight alongside her anymore."
Wesley's eyes widened slightly as something clicked into place. "She was with you when he was there, wasn't she?"
Angel nodded. He walked over to the fallen punching bag and picked it up.
"Good Lord," Wesley breathed. "I don't imagine she took that particularly well."
"She went home," said Angel as he reattached the chain.
Wesley watched him sympathetically. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know."
I love writing Doyle. I think this is actually the first time I've ever had a chance to do so. Yay for Wesley and Willow being awesome best friends. Also, that thing Wesley said about the Powers and the hierarchy of angels is something I've been idly theorizing about for a while, and it was awesome to be able to actually fit it into one of Wesley's informative rants.
P.S. It was totally an accident that the Chapter of Extreme Angst landed on Valentine's Day. I'm not that mean. I do, however, find the irony rather amusing.