By Gabrielle Lawson
Harry finished buttoning the top to the pajamas Giles had donated to Doyle's wardrobe. At present, the pajamas were the only clothes he owned. As Cordelia had surmised, the clothes he had been wearing were soaked through with blood, and they now resided in a plastic garbage bag beside the bed. Well, except for the brown leather jacket. She and Angel had decided to have it cleaned.
Harry wrung out the washcloth and stood to dump the water. It still didn't seem real somehow. All that blood and there was hardly a cut on him. He had a few scratches from the wall he'd been thrown through and the burns on his wrists. Otherwise, he was just extremely thin and tired. And weak enough that he couldn't so much as raise an arm to help her change his clothes. He was embarrassed at first, but they'd both reasoned that there was nothing she hadn't already seen. He'd fallen asleep as soon as she'd gotten his shoes off.
He was asleep now and Harry wondered if he still had nightmares of the Nether and Lo'oran. If he did, it didn't show. He looked peaceful, like he had looked when they were both younger. She hated to wake him, but she knew he wouldn't mind. He was as hungry as he was exhausted.
Harry shook the can, poured the other half of it into a glass and set them both on the nightstand. The nutrition shake was Giles' idea. Francis had already had half in the car. Then she touched his face. "Francis," she said softly. "Time to eat."
He hadn't woken no matter how she turned or moved him to get him cleaned and changed, but now his eyelids snapped open. Not that they didn't droop or threaten to close again. Harry smiled. "I see you have your priorities in order," she teased as she propped a pillow behind his head. She put a straw in the glass and held it for him while he drank.
"It's not a steak," he said, when he stopped for a breath, "but it'll do."
"I don't think your stomach could take a steak just yet," she told him.
"A man can dream," he replied. "At least it's vanilla."
Harry smiled and replaced the empty glass on the table. "I remembered," she said. "you never liked the 'melty' part of chocolate ice cream."
"And those things," he flicked a finger in the direction of the glass, "are all melty."
Harry laughed and lowered him back down again. He kept his eyes open, watching her, but his brow creased. He looked so serious now, vulnerable. "Harry?" he whispered. "You think we could maybe forgive and forget, you know, all the bad stuff?"
She took his hand, careful not to touch his wrist. "I did that months ago."
His fingers squeezed hers lightly. "So we can maybe be friends again?"
Harry shook her head. "Oh, Francis, we can never be just friends." She gave him a light smile. "We're family. Maybe not the same roles we used to have. But we're still family."
Doyle relaxed into the pillow. Harry brushed a stray bit of hair off his forehead. "I'm leaving, Francis. I have to take Gherosha back."
"I thought--"
"I know," Harry laughed, "I guess he thought it a more dramatic exit. Anyway, I wanted to tell you how glad I am to see you again." Her throat hurt, but she didn't want to cry. Not now. "And I wanted to tell you to stop punishing yourself. You don't deserve it, Francis. You never did."
He looked away for a moment, taking a deep breath. "Old habits," he said, leaving it at that.
He couldn't promise. She knew that. She tucked the blanket around him and leaned forward to kiss him softly on the forehead.
"I still love you, Harry," he whispered. "I always will."
She stood. "Me, too, Francis."
He closed his eyes. He waited until she got to the door before he spoke again. "But do you think you could call me Doyle now?"
Harry laughed and shook her head. She called back over her shoulder. "You'll always be Francis to me, Francis."
Doyle struggled to lift his eyelids and then lifted an arm to rub at his eyes. The latter was now easier than the former. Every time he woke, he found himself stronger, though it still felt like lifting weights just to move his own body. And each time he'd been relieved to find he wasn't alone. Harry had been there the first time, another time it was Giles, changing the bandages on his wrists.
But usually it was Angel, and he just sat in the chair beside the bed pretending to read a book. In the short intervals of Doyle's wakefulness, he filled Doyle in on what he missed while he was asleep. Harry had borrowed Angel's car to take Gherosha back to his clan. Buffy and Willow had returned to campus and to classes, while Xander and Anya had left to "celebrate." Spike had simply left, which was good, considering he was still a danger to Angel, if not Doyle as well.
Cordelia had been taken to the hospital and diagnosed with a mild concussion. She now slept beside him on the bed, an afghan carefully tucked in around her and a bandage on her forehead. She had no make-up on, and her hair was tangled around her head. She was beautiful.
When Angel didn't say anything, Doyle looked and found him also sleeping. His head rested on an arm slung over the back of the chair. Doyle was thirsty--and hungry, but he was always hungry--and the glass beside the bed was empty. But he didn't want to wake either of them. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sleeping, but he figured they'd probably been awake for most of it. He had to get up sometime, and lying down was becoming uncomfortable.
He was still weak and it took a lot of effort to sit up. He went slowly, backing himself into the headboard until he was sitting. He felt a little dizzy and had to close his eyes until that passed. He almost fell asleep again, but he forced his eyes open and looked around the room from this new vantage point.
He'd figured he was still at Giles', but he'd never seen this room before. He'd never seen the bed he was sitting on. He smiled. He was upstairs. And he was sitting on a bed, leaning on a headboard. He was real and whole and alive.
But he was still thirsty and uncomfortable, and now he was determined to walk himself down the stairs that he would have fallen through the day before--at least he guessed it had been a day. He just wished he didn't have to walk down there in pajamas.
Careful not to make any noise or jar the bed too much, Doyle let his legs fall over the side. He used the bedside table for support and stood. His body felt a lot like it had on the way to the station, rubbery and weak, and the floor moved like waves beneath his feet. Doyle had to sit down again, but he was too determined to give up. The foot of the bed was close to a dresser. He could hold on to that until he reached the door.
He slid himself to the end of the bed and stood again, reaching out for the dresser with his eyes closed against the dizziness he felt. It passed and he opened them, surprised to find a nicely folded stack of clothes right next to his hand. The shirt on top looked a lot like the shirt he had been wearing all this time, but it was still crisp and new. Someone had bought him some clothes.
It took nearly twenty minutes to dress, but he managed, only standing when he had to get the pants over his hips. He checked over his shoulder to make sure Cordelia was still sleeping, and then stood again, using the dresser for support.
The dizziness subsided, though it didn't go away completely. He kept one hand and a good amount of his weight on first the wall and then the banister and concentrated simply on moving one foot in front of the other. He wanted to sit and rest on the steps, but he wouldn't allow himself to stop. He felt he needed to get downstairs. Downstairs was life. And food.
Giles saw him when the stepped onto the landing. "Oh dear," he said, coming to the foot of the stairs. "Let me help you."
Doyle stopped, both hands on the banister to steady himself. "Thanks," he replied, "but I think I can make it." He kept both hands on the banister, locking his arms to support his weight, and stepped down again. "Who do I get to thank for the wardrobe?" he asked, trying not to sound as strained and fatigued as he felt.
"Riley," Giles replied, not moving from the end of the banister. "He and Buffy went shopping this afternoon. They weren't certain of the sizes."
Two more steps. Doyle felt like he'd run a marathon already. "I'm not sure of the sizes," he quipped back. The clothes were a bit big, but he was still a bit small from the ordeal. He spotted his target behind Giles. The table. Then he hesitated, one step left to go. There was nothing but open space between the banister and the table.
Giles rightly read his hesitation as doubt. "Are you sure you can make it?"
The man had played a large part in saving his life, Doyle reasoned. He'd seen Doyle at a weaker state than this. This was an improvement. Nothing to be ashamed of. Still his cheeks flushed a bit. "No," he replied, "I'm not sure at all."
Giles nodded and offered his arms. "You do the work, and I'll see that you don't fall."
Doyle smiled. "Sounds like a good deal to me." With Giles holding him up, Doyle walked, slowly, to the table. Giles pulled out a chair, and Doyle dropped himself into it, resting his arms on the table top.
Giles moved toward the kitchen. "I was just about to have some tea. Can I get you some?"
"I'd like that," Doyle answered, allowing himself the small wonder of running his fingers over the solidity of the wooden tabletop. "But I'd really like something more substantial than tea."
"Perhaps a sandwich?" Giles offered from the kitchen. "You should probably avoid anything too heavy for the time being."
Doyle nodded, remembering the sandwich Willow had tried to give him. "That would be great, thank you."
Giles returned after a few minutes with a sandwich and two cups of tea. He pulled over a chair opposite Doyle. "Really," Doyle added once Giles was seated, "thank you."
"You're more than welcome," the Englishman replied. "I could thank you as well. You did your part, and a bit more, the other night. The world is safe for the next day or two. Now dig in, and try not to eat too fast."
Doyle smiled at both Giles and the sandwich before him. The bread was soft when he picked it up. It was simple enough. Just soft white bread, a few thin slices of ham, and a touch of mustard. Still, it tasted like the stuff of heaven when he took his first bite. He couldn't help but take the second as soon as the first was gone. The sandwich was half-gone before he stopped for a breath.
"How long have I been out?" Doyle asked.
Giles took a sip of his tea. "It's Wednesday afternoon."
"Wednesday," Doyle repeated, a bit surprised. Nearly two whole days.
Giles offered a smile and raised his teacup in salute. "Welcome back."
Doyle finished the last bite of sandwich and raised his own cup in return. "It's good to be back." His hand shook, so he lowered it again quickly. The tea had cooled while he was eating, so he drank half of it down at once before it could get cold.
"Rieff came by to see you yesterday," Giles told him. "He wanted to say good-bye. He was going to return to his family on Briole."
Doyle let out a sigh of relief. "He's alright then?" He'd been worried about Rieff and the others.
"A little haggard, perhaps, and sore," Giles replied. "But he appeared uninjured."
Doyle finished his tea while he tried to decide how to word his next question. "How many," he finally asked, "died, on our side?"
Giles put down his own glass and steepled his fingers. "Sixty-three," he answered.
Doyle felt his heart drop in his chest. So many. More than he'd saved that night on the Quintessa.
"I met some of them," Giles went on, "in the Nether. They gave their lives. They knew you were the one to stop the Scourge. Try to think of all those who will live now that Lo'oran is gone."
Doyle nodded, but such things were always easier said than done. He was tired again. His vision blurred, and he felt dizzy. Then his skull seemed to contract around his brain in a familiar and completely unwelcome manner. A spasm hit him with the vision and his head dropped painfully to the table. His right hand clenched the teacup and squeezed so hard that it broke.
Doyle wasn't aware of Giles jumping up from the table. He didn't hear the man call for Angel. He could not even make himself breathe. His hand gripped the broken glass, driving shards through his palm. But that was nothing compared to the pain in his head.
Angel was awake and down the stairs before the vision was over. Doyle's body relaxed and he distantly felt someone open his fist and remove the glass. Doyle just concentrated on breathing and trying to open his eyes so he could tell what he saw before he forgot.
Strong arms gripped his waist and half-carried, half-dragged him to the couch. "Doyle?" Angel asked, as he placed a cool cloth on his forehead. He was worried.
Doyle still couldn't get his eyes to open. But he could talk. "Goldfingers," he whispered. "Vampires. We have to go home." He didn't hear Angel's reply.
Someone woke him later. Cordelia. She helped Doyle to sit up. "Sun's down," she said, smiling. "Time to go home."
Angel helped to haul him to his feet. "I guess, since you made it all the way down the stairs, I won't have to carry you."
"Harry has your car," was all Doyle could manage, remembering that she'd left soon after the battle was over.
"We're taking the train," Angel answered. "Put this on."
He held up Doyle's familiar leather jacket and helped him get his arms in. Giles and Angel helped him to the car. Doyle managed to stay awake for the ride, and he was even able to stand on his own when they arrived at the train station.
He was a little surprised to see the rather large crowd that had gathered to see them off. Buffy, Riley, Willow--everyone but Spike. "We had a pool in your honor," Xander announced. "The one who guesses farthest from your actual wake-up time has to make dinner for everyone else."
"I lost," Riley said with a grin and an extended his hand. Doyle smiled back, glancing at his own right hand now bandaged and swore. He offered his left hand instead and the two of them shook hands. "I was hoping to meet you when Buffy and I dropped off the clothes." Riley added.
"That was you?" Cordelia began before Doyle could thank him. "You bought the same thing he always wears. The man literally has no clothes. It was a prime opportunity for upgrade."
Doyle grasped Riley's hand with both of his own and shook it again. "Thank you," he said, exaggerating his sincerity.
Xander was next in line with Anya and Doyle shook hands with each, thanking them. Giles shook hands too, and Doyle apologized for the nearly week-long invasion of his house. Then there was Willow. "I believe I owe you a kiss," Doyle told her, throwing a glance at Cordelia. She didn't look happy.
Willow rescued him from that predicament. "I saw what happened to Cordelia after one of your kisses, so I think I'll settle for a hug."
She had a little girl quality about her that Doyle liked. She was cute. But Cordy was gorgeous. "Deal," he replied, letting her pull him into a brief embrace.
Doyle had purposely saved Buffy for last. He owed his life to each of them, but nothing they did would have been possible without Buffy. Doyle took a step toward her and pulled her into the strongest hug he could manage. "Thank you," he whispered in her ear, "for seeing me."
Her arms, much stronger than his, wrapped around him in return. "I'd like to see you again someday," she told him, then held him back. "Just leave the apocalypse in L.A. next time." She was smiling. "I have something for you."
She turned to Riley, who held a gym bag out to her. Doyle could tell by the way it hung that there was something long and thin inside it. She unzipped the bag and pulled out the dark sword that had killed Lo'oran. She held it with one hand under the hilt, the other under the blade. "You earned it," she said, presenting it to him.
Doyle didn't know that he wanted that sword. "You defeated him," he whispered back, wishing now that they were alone.
"Not without you," she returned, whispering also. "We Ones have to stick together." She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek and placed the sword in his hands.
When she let go, they weight of it nearly pulled him over. So he let go and it clamored to the pavement. Buffy chuckled and Doyle just shrugged, amused himself. It was a good feeling.
Angel retrieved the sword. "Why don't I carry this for you?"
"We're going to miss our train," Cordelia stated, taking Doyle's arm. She smiled at the others the same way she had when Buffy came to visit, a mixture of annoyance and jealousy, with just a touch of affection hidden under pride. She was complicated, and he let her turn him away towards the station. "Bye, everyone!" she called back.
Angel lagged a moment behind, but it wasn't hard to catch up. He slipped one arm around Doyle's back and the walking became easier. Still, to one so weak, the distance to the gate and the waiting train was long. They found an empty compartment and Doyle laid across the seats on one side. He was asleep again before the train left the station.
Wesley covered a yawn as he entered the concourse. It was still relatively early as far as LA nights went, and the station held a fair crowd. He found the information booth and the gate for the train from Sunnydale. He also noted that, while he was early, so was the train. It had arrived five minutes ago.
Wesley scanned the crowd for Angel's face and dark coat as he strode toward the gate. The gate's doors were closed, the train having already discharged all its passengers. A few likely candidates still milled about, but most had either headed for the exit or the benches where they could rest to wait for friends who weren't expecting them for another ten minutes.
Angel was fairly tall and his dark countenance was generally noticeable. And Cordelia always managed to stand out in a crowd. But Wesley could see neither of them. Of course, they wouldn't have expected him to be here so soon, but he'd been anxious to hear how things turned out.
They might simply have wandered off for a snack, Wesley reasoned. Well, a snack for Cordelia at any rate. He could have them paged, which would undoubtedly annoy one or the other of them, or he could wait for them to return. But they might not think to return to the gate. They might head for the concourse or expect to meet him at the curb. They could be there now, waiting for him while he was at the gate waiting for them. And if they were outside, they might not even hear a page.
"Wesley."
Wesley turned, trying not to look too obvious in case the unfamiliar, accented voice had been speaking to some other Wesley. A sickly-looking young man was watching him, though his eyes wandered frequently to a man across the aisle who was trying to coax his child into eating a graham cracker without success. Wesley could have been the boy's name. He turned away again, and went back to scanning the crowd.
"Wesley Wyndham-Price."
Wesley spun again and this time the young man was watching him intently. He was more than sickly. He seemed poured onto the bench, uncomfortable but not inclined--or unable--to sit up. He spoke again, quieter, but with the same light brogue, "Former slayer watcher and rogue demon hunter."
Wesley stepped closer, darting his eyes to see if anyone had heard. Closer, but not too close. "How do you know that?" he asked, whispering.
The man's mouth turned up into a small grin. He whispered back, "You work for a vampire named Angel."
Wesley grew alarmed, though he tried not to show it. "Do I know you?" he asked, hoping he sounded authoritative.
The man's smile widened. "No, I don't suppose you do. They didn't talk about me much. But I know you."
Talk about him? Who was 'they'? He'd only mentioned Angel. "Who are you?"
The man held out a shaky left hand, and Wesley noted the right one was bandaged. Actually, the left was too, but only at the wrist. Incapable seemed more the reason for his posture. "Doyle," the man said.
Wesley's eyebrows lifted, and his heart sped up in his chest. "Doyle who?"
"Who Doyle, more rightly," the man corrected, dropping his hand wearily to his lap. "But I think you'll figure it out."
Wesley felt a chill. "The one . . . who is . . . is--" he stammered, knowing but unable to put the word out.
"Dead," Doyle finished for him, sounding a little too amused for Wesley's taste. "Yeah, that's me."
"But--" Wesley didn't know how to finish. He'd never knowingly talked with a ghost before. No wonder he looked sickly. But that didn't make sense. Wesley hadn't heard much but he knew that Doyle had died suddenly and heroically, not of illness. And why would a ghost be bandaged?
"Hi, Wesley."
Wesley spun around again, still unsure how to proceed. Cordelia waved. She and Angel were still a few yards away.
"You're early," Angel said in greeting as they neared. "Good. I've got to work tonight."
They weren't aware. Maybe he wasn't visible to them. Maybe he wasn't Doyle at all, but an imposter who knew Wesley wouldn't know the difference. And why was Angel carrying a chocolate chip cookie and a small carton of milk?
"I got you a present," Angel added, walking right past Wesley to the man . . . ghost . . . whatever . . . seated on the bench. "I had one of these that day I was human."
What day as a human? Perhaps things hadn't gone as well in Sunnydale as Wesley had hoped.
The man watched the cookie more than Angel who handed it to him. Cordelia sat beside him and opened the milk. Wesley now noticed the bandage on her forehead. That could explain her acceptance. But Angel?
"Have a seat, Wesley," Angel encouraged. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Wesley stared down at him, still unable to form a word.
Doyle, or whoever he was, laughed. And nearly choked. Angel helped him sit up, while Cordelia patted his back. "Okay, let's wait a few weeks before we try laughing while eating again."
Doyle could only nod since he was too busy coughing. Cordelia helped him with the milk, but Angel just furrowed his prominent brow at Wesley. "You didn't think. . . . You knew he wasn't dead."
Wesley knew no such thing. "Then where has he been all these months? And the grieving and moping?"
"He always mopes," Doyle offered, apparently thinking he was being helpful.
"He's unusually talented at it," Cordelia added.
Angel wasn't as entertained. "You called us. You knew about the N'thirae demon. You gave us the way into the Nether so we could get him out."
Him? Wesley shook his head. "Buffy," he replied, not at all sure anymore. "Buffy was in the Nether."
Doyle finished the rest of his cookie and reached for the milk. "He's got his adjectives all confused," he said, clearly thinking he'd explained it all.
Angel apparently agreed. "Buffy's the Chosen One, Wesley. The Promised," he indicated Doyle, "One was in the Nether."
Wesley still didn't understand, but he realized he wasn't going to win. "Doyle--your Doyle, the dead one--is the Promised One?" He dropped to the bench beside Cordelia.
"Not dead," Cordelia corrected. She leaned forward to address Angel on the other side of Doyle. "We should have talked more about how he died."
Angel just shrugged, standing and held out his hand to Doyle who stood with visible effort. "We'll explain it in the car," he offered Wesley.
Wesley stood up, too and took up Doyle's other side. It already made some sense. And if Doyle had spent the last few months with the N'thirae demon, he had good reason to be too weak.
"Wesley," Cordelia said, putting a bag over his other shoulder and clapping his back, "meet Doyle." And Wesley didn't think he'd ever seen her happier.
THE END ©copyright 2000 Gabrielle Lawson
©copyright 2000 Gabrielle Lawson
Send feedback to inheildi at earthlink dot net The MIDI file is Enya's On My Way Home courtesy of Enya: the lost souls midi archive Back to Fan Fiction. Back to my main page.
The MIDI file is Enya's On My Way Home courtesy of Enya: the lost souls midi archive
Back to Fan Fiction. Back to my main page.