By Gonzai
Author: Gonzai
Title: A Sodden Mess
E-Mail: LCSTrish@aol.com
Rating: PG - mild violence and profanity
Summary: Everybody is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day
Content: A lotta weird/silly stuff
Feedback: But of course
Spoilers: '5 x 5', 'She', 'Room w/ a Vu'
Disclaimers: The characters from the show aren't mine, duh. The others are mine.
Author's Notes: Certain people seem to think I'm mean to Doyle all the time. So, to make them
happy, I decided to write one in which he doesn't get hurt. Problem being that required a whole
lot of weird and silly and general insanity. As a result, I now need to apologize to the following:
Aaron Sorkin/The West Wing, Trey Parker & Matt Stone, M. Shyamaldan (sp?), and my personal
favorite author, Douglas Adams. Oddly enough, this story was inspired by the West Wing ep
'Celestial Navigation'. Yes, really. I highly recommend that ep and the whole series, for that
matter. Oh yeah, this happens about six weeks after the end of 'Ancient
History'.
My name's Allan Francis Doyle, an' I work for Angel Investigations. I work for a vampire. It ain't an easy job. Even though he's a vampire with a soul, an' he's helpin' people, it's still a rough way to make a livin'. I don't mind the night hours quite so much, I'm usually up myself then, but there are other ways I'd rather be spendin' that time. And when we're done fightin' evil for the night, there's time enough for that.
"Man, I'm outta pretzels again," slurred the drunk on the next to last stool. For the area and the time of night, he was actually fairly well-dressed and reeking of cologne. The bartender knew the young man had been stood up by a lady friend that evening; the kid had told him that at least a dozen times already. Besides the kid there were only two others in the bar, the old fellow and an Irishman, and he was already bored.
"What if there weren't any pretzels left in the whole world? What would we eat then?" the kid asked blurrily as the bartender slid a bowl of pretzels in front of him.
"Real food," the bartender mumbled more to himself than anyone else.
"A cheeseburger," announced the older fellow sitting next to the youngster. "With everything on it. Except mustard. I hate mustard. It's yellow."
"Lord help me," the bartender rolled his eyes. "Charlie's started on mustard again."
"It's terrible! It's yellow! An' it's...it's...yellow!" Charlie declared.
The bartender decided to retreat to the back of the bar. He'd rather hear how the kid had been dumped again than listen to Charlie.
"Is there anythin' worse on this Earth than mustard? For eatin' anyway?" Charlie demanded.
"Well, you could drink blood," mused Doyle.
"This one wasn't a ghost. It was a real demon. It was, I swear to you," Angel informed Wesley and Cordelia with exasperation. Seeing the dead--his fellow dead, Angel corrected himself--wasn't an enjoyable experience to begin with, and their insistence that he couldn't tell the difference between wandering spirits and a quite real demon was tremendously aggravating. "I'm not insane. Not yet, anyway."
"Very well then. What did it look like? I'll try to find it in the database if my fingers remained attached long enough for me to type." Wesley wasn't any happier than Angel was at the moment, most likely because most of both of his legs had fallen off in bits and pieces and one of his pinky fingers had just come off as well.
"At least you have parts left that look human. Look at me! They haven't invented the nose job that will fix this," Cordelia fretted. She had grown feathers, flippers and a beak and was looking more and more like a penguin with each passing moment.
"Actually, I thought the beak is rather fetching," Wesley told her sarcastically.
Angel agreed. "It's cute on you. Really."
I always used to come to this place, back when it was just me an' Angel an' Cordelia, on the
nights I couldn't get them to come with. I came here a lot then.
Charlie is always here and he always complains about mustard. An' he thinks the Irish are
weird.
"Hey, that wouldn't be half bad. 'Cause you know, it's red," Charlie informed Doyle.
"That it is, my friend, that it most certainly is," Doyle agreed.
"But who'd drink that? I mean, it won't get you drunk. So what's the point?" asked the kid.
"My boss would drink it. He lives on it," Doyle remarked.
"That is so...that is so...cool," the kid answered dreamily. "He must be so...cool."
"He's that too. Downright cold. He's a vampire, you know," Doyle continued.
"Does he eat mustard too?" Charlie asked.
"Uh...no. Pretty sure not," Doyle offered.
"Man, it must be cool to have a boss like that. What's it like to have a job like that? I mean," the kid leaned over to Doyle conspiratorially, "I ain't never got to work for a vampire."
"You wouldn't want to," Doyle told him. "'Cause stuff gets really messy sometimes."
"Like, how?"
"Well, like today. See, there was these flowers, an' some pretty ugly shoes, an' a client who wasn't, an' a museum, an' a whole bunch of ghosts that weren't all friendly. But I swear to you," Doyle unsteadily grabbed the kid's shoulder, "none of this was my fault."
Really, I don't think it was my fault. Okay, the shoes were my fault. An' I guess the flowers didn't work out that great either. I still think Cordelia's upset with me about the whole vision thing too, now she's gettin' 'em again an' I'm not. Not that I'm gonna complain about that, but she sure does. All the same, I thought we had somethin' goin' for a while there, but she's forgettin' about me again already.
Doyle was, to be honest, a little disappointed about last night. Partly he was disappointed because Angel wanted him to help out in rousting what appeared to Doyle to be a demonic dust-bunny (although Angel had been quite insistent it was a demon, pure and simple, forget what it looks like) when Doyle would have preferred to have taken Cordelia to dinner, and partly because Cordelia had declined to go with him even before Angel announced the deed of the day. Something about someone more important than Doyle, if he recalled correctly, not that it wasn't always.
But he had decided prior to showing up in the office that he would devote the day--or at least as much of it as might be available--to convincing Cordelia he was important enough for dinner, too. 'And maybe important enough for after dinner,' he thought impishly to himself, although he knew better than to expect anything. He decided to start with a couple of flowers for her, nothing special, just something pretty, and so he left early, before Cordelia came in, to picked up a few before returning to the office.
Wesley was reading the paper when Doyle arrived, and was making a grand show of being fully involved with it. Fine with Doyle; he didn't want to talk to Wesley. And it was all the better if Wesley didn't have a front row seat for his efforts with Cordelia. She was unsuccessfully trying to download an article from the Internet. Possibly because she hadn't connected to it first. Doyle hid the flowers behind his back and plunked himself down on the desk next to her..
"Mornin' darlin'!" he announced as cheerfully as he could.
Cordelia didn't even look at him. "You're late."
"So?" It wasn't like he had anything to do.
"So you live here, and you still manage to be late showing up. That's like--impossible!" she informed him, waving her hands in the air in emphasis.
"Well then, I most humbly apologize to ya. I was just thinkin' this mornin' I ought to get ya somethin' as pretty as you are, so I did." Doyle produced the flowers in the grandest gesture possible, which ended with them inches from Cordelia's face. "Almos' as beautiful as you are, Princess."
Cordelia didn't say anything. She stared at the flowers for a second, then started sneezing. Not just once or twice, but rapid fire.
"Bless ya, darlin', not that ya needed any more but...okay, ya can stop now," Doyle said in surprise.
"No--achoo!--I can't--achoo!--allergic, you--achoo!--idiot!"
Oh, cripes. He yanked the flowers back away from her face and jumped back to his feet. "I'm sorry, Cordy, didn't know, totally my bad," he babbled. He decided he'd really better get her some tissues, except he wasn't sure where they were, and in his frantic haste to find the tissues and hopefully save some minute degree of face, he knocked Cordelia's coffee over and onto her shoes. New shoes too, from the look of them, although honestly he couldn't say the coffee stains weren't an improvement. "Oh, man. Lemme help you--"
"You've already helped me plenty today, no thank you," Cordelia fumed. "Not to mention helping me with the whole vision thing. If you help me any more I'll need health insurance."
"I had no idea, darlin', really--"
"Don't talk to me, okay? Just don't. And these were new!" she squealed, pointing at the shoes. "I only got them two days ago! And they were on sale!" Suddenly she made a decision, stood up and grabbed her pocketbook. "Maybe they still are. You answer the phone, I have more important things to do." And with that she stalked out of the office.
Wesley peeked out over the top of the paper. "Brilliant job, if I say so myself."
"Oh, can it." Doyle slammed himself into a chair, hard. "I was tryin' t' be nice, that's all."
"In that case, perhaps I'm better off that you don't like me," Wesley commented.
Doyle was just about to deliver the most creative insult he'd ever thought of when the telephone started ringing and he completely forgot whatever it was he was about to say. Both Doyle and Wesley stared at the phone, then at each other, then at the phone again.
"It's your problem. You scared her off, you can answer it," Wesley announced.
"Fine, then, I'll answer it. An' if it's Publisher's Clearin' House, I ain't sharin' it." Doyle picked up the phone in annoyance. "Hello, Angel Investigations. We...help...okay, I don't know what we do here. What d' ya want?"
"I...umm...do you..." the voice on the other end of the phone sounded very taken aback by Doyle's answer, but it also sounded young and female. Doyle decided he'd better start over.
"Sorry, the receptionist's run out an' I don't get the phone much. Somethin' I can do for ya?" he hoped that sounded more pleasant.
"Well, I'm having a sort of a, a, uh, mystical problem, if you know what I mean. You probably don't."
Definitely young and female. Sounded pretty even. "Oh, I do. Angel does that sorta thin' all the time. We can do it, fer sure."
"Thank God. You see, I had an old talisman in my family, hundreds of years old, and I loaned to the Natural History Museum for display--and it's been stolen. From the museum, last night. It's so important to my family, and, well, maybe it has power, I don't know, but I'm afraid if the person who stole it knows what it is--"
"Not a problem," Doyle hoped he sounded reassuring. "We'll get straight down there an' I guarantee ya, we'll find it an' get it back t' ya. If ya could meet us there, of course."
"Oh, yes. I'll be right there. Thank you so much." She hung up.
"See?" Doyle set down the phone and turned to face down Wesley. "I can handle that. I got us a client even. Simple job, coupla dollars into the kitty, no problem."
"No problem, except that it seems to me you didn't get the client's name," noted Wesley.
Doyle's face fell. He hadn't even thought to ask.
"And for the record, get what back? I don't recall you making any notes.."
"Umm...I didn't ask, she didn't tell."
"Your helpfulness is truly astounding." Wesley's sarcasm bit harder than Doyle expected. "Lastly, how is Angel supposed to meet someone at the museum, someone whose name he doesn't have and he surely won't recognize, in the daytime no less?"
"Well, he can't. I guess I better go find her then." Doyle couldn't imagine how he could dig himself back out of this one, only that he had better start trying.
"Correction, we had better go find her. Much as I don't care to leave the office today, clearly you're not yet capable of doing investigative work," Wesley concluded icily.
Doyle couldn't have wilted much further if he tried, especially since Wesley was right. No wonder he was rubbing it in, too, Doyle couldn't recall having given him any better opportunity for it. Althought the not yet capable comment really hurt. True, he had only been fit for duty for a month, but still, on his worst day he was a better fighter than Wesley. Sharing duties for the past month had chafed them both, but really, that last part was uncalled for.
Well, okay, maybe I did deserve that. But bein' blamed for the rest was a little harsh. 'Specially with the way thin's went after that. Not any better.
Going to the museum was definitely not an Angel assignment and neither Doyle nor Wesley thought it worthy of telling Angel where they were going or why. Certainly Doyle wasn't going to tell him and admit how he'd made an idiot of himself with a potential client.
But the day was clear and beautiful and the museum was overrun with children of all ages on field trips. Doyle's first inclination was that finding the client might be easier; just look for an adult. He failed to consider the number of teachers and chaperones that might be accompanying the children though.
"This place is an utter madhouse," Wesley complained. "Couldn't you have gotten any clue about our client?"
"I'd know her voice if I heard it," Doyle offered weakly. He realized almost immediately that was a very bad suggestion.
"Good. You talk to all these women. Politely, if I might suggest. Meanwhile I do believe I'll enjoy the scenery. Enjoy yourself,"Wesley added smugly, and parked himself on a nearby bench in the shade.
Oh, terrific. Doyle had briefly hoped maybe he could just keep an ear out, but he didn't relish the idea of actually trying to spark conversation with dozens of women, most of whom would be married, some of whom likely wouldn't appreciate him one bit, and all of whom were far too occupied with the whereabouts of small children. Maybe he shouldn't have gotten up that morning.
"Hey, Doyle. Wassup?" The last was in the same annoying squawk the younger generation had been using of late, but otherwise Doyle thought that voice sounded just plain beautiful. 'Saved by the bell, I guess', he thought.
"Jimmy!" Doyle hadn't seen the youngster for several weeks, which considering recent events was probably for the best. But it occurred to Doyle he had a lot of explaining to do about a lot of things, starting with why he was standing. Still, it was better than the alternative.
"You look taller," Jimmy noted with half a grin.
"So do you," Doyle returned. "What's your ma feedin' ya?"
Jimmy ignored the question. "I'm supposed to be taller. You're not."
"Right. It's a really, really long story."
"I'll bet." Jimmy paused to make sure no one was close enough to hear. "A long story about demons?"
The question hit Doyle in the stomach as hard as if he'd been punched, and not just because it was a sore subject with him. He knew he had never mentioned that to Jimmy, and he knew Angel and Wesley wouldn't have, so that left--"Cordelia."
"Yep," Jimmy nodded. "She says you're half one. Although I was kinda thinking you weren't normal anyway."
Doyle sighed unhappily, both for his regrettable lineage and for Cordelia's lack of tact. The girl would give away government secrets for a breath mint. "Yeah, I am. An' that's why, sort of. It really is a long story. Blood, guts, monsters, the whole thing."
"Whatever. Could be cool being a demon, I guess. You know, jump out and scare people good."
"It's not cool. Trust me on that one." Despite his best efforts, Doyle couldn't block the sadness from his voice as he said it; Jimmy picked up on it and changed the subject.
"What are you doing here? I had to come for school. It's boring, but at least it's a different place."
"Museums aren't borin' if ya got the right guide. Remind me an' I'll have Angel take ya sometime," Doyle grinned, grateful for the change of topic. "I'm 'sposed to be meetin' our new client here, but I haven't seen her yet."
"Is your client human or not human?" Jimmy asked with interest.
Doyle was shocked at the question. "What?"
"I was just wondering, 'cause there's a lady who was here before, when we got here, she was wandering around outside, I dunno, I just thought she wasn't all right that way. And she looked like she was looking for something. Maybe you?"
"Maybe...hey, help me find her?"
"Sure."
"I've lost one and found one," Wesley announced.
"Lost one and found one what?" Angel asked. He had taken refuge under his desk because if he could see into the hallway or out the window, he saw more ghosts. And he was more than a little tired of it.
"Lost another finger. Found another demon fitting your description. I suggest this had better be the right one, my typing is slowing considerably."
Angel cautiously peeked from below the desk. The demon on the screen looked way too familiar. "That's her--I mean it. It was a her and then it turned into an it.. So it probably always was an it--"
"You have gone over the edge," Cordelia declared in disgust. It sounded more like squawking than it had a few minutes earlier.
"Have not!" Angel considered how that might have sounded and decided it wasn't helping his cause. "I haven't. I'm fine. Really. What is that thing?"
"A Danos demon. Rare, fortunately."
"Fortunately?"
"Given the proper spells and artifacts, they can open a Hellmouth wherever and whenever," Wesley noted.
"Oh. It's not good then." Angel realized the only reason they would have seen one is if it were up to something. And therefore, it must be. "Uh, did you say something about artifacts?"
"Hellmouth, big deal. We've lived with that for years. I have not dealt with being a penguin for years. I think this is more important?"
I had no idea Jimmy could tell humans from non-humans. An' maybe that's something I should be worried about. But for then, I was more worried about findin' this client, 'specially if it turned out she wasn't human either. I mean, I don't like gettin' set up.
"So where's Cordelia? How come you didn't bring her?" Jimmy asked as he and Doyle dodged an assortment of second-graders.
"She's kinda mad at me right now," Doyle admitted, blushing a little.
"How come?"
"I kinda screwed up some thin's today. I'm gonna have to make it up to her too."
"How?"
"Lotta questions ya got for me today," Doyle asked back.
"Well, I should start learning about girls sometime, right?" Jimmy asked innocently.
Doyle was surprised. Had he been that interested in girls at twelve? 'Yeah, you were,' he muttered to himself. "Girls usually like it when you do nice thin's for 'em for no reason, like flowers an' stuff. 'cept Cordy turned out t' be allergic to flowers an' it went downhill from there. So now I have t' do somethin' nice for her for a reason, an' that's harder, 'cause when you have to do somethin' for a reason, then they want somethin' really special."
Jimmy shrugged. "So get her something special. My Dad'll give you the money."
Doyle grimaced. "Ya don't get it. If I buy her somethin' expensive, I'll have t' keep doin' that every time. An' I can't keep hittin' your Da' for cash. It's gotta be somethin' nice I can do, not that I can buy."
"What does she like?"
"Expensive thin's ya can buy. Ya see the problem?"
Jimmy snickered. "Yep. So ask her if she likes anything else."
"Ahh, she doesn't tell me that stuff. She only tells Dennis that--" it occurred to Doyle Jimmy wouldn't know about Dennis. Or would he? "Ya know about Dennis?"
"Her ghost. She told me."
"A' course she did."
"So why not ask Dennis?"
"Wish I could. But Dennis doesn't talk."
"He could if you gave him some help," Jimmy noted matter-of-factly.
"What?!" Doyle temporarily forgot how to walk and tripped over his own feet, landing awkwardly at the base of a curtain. As he started to get back up, he saw a small piece of polished rock, dark purple in color, lying in a corner. 'Wonder where that belongs,' he thought. 'I better take it and give it back to the curator or something.' He picked it up and dropped it in his pocket before he staggered back to his feet.
Jimmy hadn't been paying attention, having become briefly preoccupied with a painting of a reclining nude. Doyle thought of saying something to the youngster about it before concluding it was better Jimmy watched that than something on cable.
"Ya were sayin'?" Doyle asked shakily, still not sure if he heard what he thought he had.
Jimmy was obviously trying to be patient with him and it was disconcerting, to say the least. "He could talk, at least he could if you did the right incantations and stuff."
"Please don't tell me you know the ones."
"Yep. That book Angel gave me, I don't think I was supposed to, but I kept it. There's lots of stuff in there about ghosts and spells. I've been practicing. It's really cool." Jimmy paused. "Angel's not going to be mad at me for keeping the book, is he?"
"I don't think he'll be mad about the book, but he ain't gonna be happy about the spells. Ya shouldn't be messin' w' that stuff. I mean that," Doyle told Jimmy in all seriousness.
"Why not? You guys do."
"Yeah, an' we've had a lotta practice w' it. An' people who know what they're doin', to teach us. Ya can't just do these thin's, ya gotta do 'em right or bad thin's happen. An' now ya got me worryin' 'bout ya," Doyle blathered.
"I wasn't doing anything bad," Jimmy pouted. Then he had an idea. "Well then, how about you guys teach me? I really like this stuff, Doyle, I really want to learn it."
"You're pretty young yet for that--"
"I'll make a deal with you. You think Cordelia would like it if Dennis could talk?"
"Well, yeah, sure she would."
"Okay. I'll help you do a spell to make him talk, if you get Wesley and Angel to teach me more magic. Deal?"
Doyle was none too sure about the idea of Jimmy learning the mystical arts. And he was even less sure he could coax, cajole, blackmail or otherwise convince either Angel or Wesley into this. On the other hand, he really needed something good he could do for Cordelia, the sooner the better. "Okay, it's a deal then."
"Cool. Maybe you guys could drive me back to the house and I'll get the book. I don't want to go back to school today," Jimmy continued as they walked back out of the museum.
"Great," Doyle complained. "First ya get me to teach ya the black arts, an' now ya want me to help ya ditch too.Ya shouldn't be playin' hooky--"
"You said you'd get Angel to take me here. So I will learn something, right?"
Jimmy had him roped and Doyle knew it. "All right, all right. Hey, Wes?"
Wesley had gotten himself extremely comfortable on his bench and was initially not pleased to be bothered, but he straightened out when he saw Jimmy. "Doyle, you better have found our client. I'm quite sure Jimmy isn't her."
"No, I didn't find her. I'm thinkin' she's long gone already anyway. But we got somethin' better to do now."
"Should I be afraid to ask?"
"Uh...yeah. Probably," Doyle admitted. "Jimmy an' me are gonna see if we can't help Dennis out in the communicatin' department."
It took a few minutes for this information to sink in for Wesley. "This wouldn't happen to involve spells, would it?" he asked slowly.
"You bet, Mr. Wes," Jimmy confirmed. "I'm getting good at them too."
"We were thinkin' maybe you could coach the kid a bit in the magic stuff," Doyle mentioned hopefully.
"Teach a twelve year old the dark arts? If the Council hadn't already sacked me, they'd be using concrete this time," grumbled Wesley.
"C'mon, Mr. Wes, please?" Jimmy gave it his best 'cute kid' look and Wesley couldn't turn him down.
"I'm certain I'll regret this. I already do. Let's go before I change my mind," he sighed.
"So, what do we do to stop this demon?" Angel asked. He had retreated back under the desk after finding himself face to face with both yet another ghost and a very irritated penguin.
"The Danos demon can only be eliminated by allowing it to begin the opening of the Hellmouth, and then closing the demon inside of it. The timing has to be perfect. Dammit, another finger," Wesley snapped.
"Well, when and where will it open the Hellmouth? I'll have to be there," Angel asked miserably. He was already thinking about how many spirits would accost him on the way. His nerves were already devastated.
Wesley was losing his composure as well, largely due to the fact he no longer had any fingers on his left hand. "You missed the wherever, whenever part," he snipped. "The demon obtains the three artifacts needed, does its spell, opens the Hellmouth, and throws in the artifacts. After which the Hellmouth becomes permanent. So, whenever and wherever it obtains the third artifact."
"Wouldn't it help to know if the demon had the first two artifacts?" Cordelia honked.
"She already does. I recall seeing in the paper that the first two have been stolen recently, one in London and the other in New York."
"Where's the third?" asked Angel.
Wesley checked the computer again. "Here. In Los Angeles. At the Natural History Museum. And there was a break-in there last night, the perpetrator was caught by the police before he could take anything, and...oh my, that's what that call this morning was all about." Wesley tried to slap himself in the face, but forgot about his missing fingers and missed his head entirely. "That was the demon who called us. Danos demons, like vampires, need an invitation. She couldn't get in the museum, she needed us to go in there and find whatever it was the burglar failed to get for her."
"And she kept telling me to give her the talisman. She thinks I have it for some reason."
"I can't imagine why she would think so. I know I found nothing unusual, and to my knowledge neither did Doyle."
"Ummm, Wes, I really hate to ask but...could you look up the third artifact?" Angel tried to ask as nicely as he could, considering the old lady ghost with a broom who was trying to whack him with it.
Jimmy sure didn't think so, but he got lucky. His parents were so mad at him for ditchin', they wouldn't let him go w' me an' Wes to Cordy's apartment. Prob'ly gonna be a while before they let me visit again to boot. But we got the book, an' we called Angel an' Cordy an' went to the apartment. Not knowin' just how bad this whole thin' was gonna go, o' course.
"Explain this to me again. You're going to cast a spell that makes Dennis talk and this will be good how?" asked Cordelia skeptically.
Doyle obviously had never considered she would be less than enthusiastic about the idea. "Uhhh...you could talk to him an' stuff, I guess."
"Did it ever occur to you maybe I like a guy who doesn't talk? Because honestly, I don't want to hear anything a man has to say unless it begins with Cartier and ends with diamonds," she said huffily.
"Well, perhaps he might have something to say to the rest of us," Wesley suggested. "It might not be a bad thing to learn about ghosts from a reliable source."
Angel had stayed out of the discussion so far, but having had more non-conversations with Dennis than either Doyle or Wesley he would cast the final vote and all of them knew that. "I think we should try it," he noted. "It could be important sometime. And it would have helped if Dennis could have told you about Faith."
Cordelia was about to argue with Angel when he mentioned Faith, and that brought her up short. She and Dennis had been a little sore with each other about that particular subject, and obviously it wouldn't have happened if he could have told her Faith was in the apartment. "Okay, okay. But I have a really bad feeling this isn't going to work."
"Don't worry Princess, I know what I'm doin'," Doyle tried to assure her.
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," she muttered.
"Is there any chance we could do this now?" Angel asked in annoyance. "The sun's going to be coming in the far window in a minute."
"And what do we have to do anyway? Nothing stupid, I hope," added Cordelia.
"It says four people have to sit in the four corners, with the ghost in the middle. An' then each of 'em read off one line of the spell. An' apparently that's it. I wrote down what we all gotta say, but I don't know where Dennis is," Doyle explained.
Fortunately Dennis was paying attention. He picked up Angel's car keys and dropped them in the middle of the floor to announce his presence. "Okay, so we know where Dennis is," noted Cordelia.
Angel had already seated himself in the corner least likely to be found by the late afternoon sun. After some squabbling, Wesley and Cordelia picked corners. Doyle gave each of them the paper with their part of the spell and sat in the remaining corner. "Ya set, Den?" he inquired. The keys rotated on the floor. "That'd be a yeah, I think. I'll start it." Doyle reviewed the first line of the spell and recited it carefully. "Emit a flesym evah annog, Kraphtuos ot nwod noig."
'Yecch,' thought Cordelia. 'Sounds like cuss words.' Nobody had said anything though, and she began to wonder. "Am I next?" she asked. No one answered, but Angel glared at her so she supposed she was. She wasn't even sure she could pronounce this stuff. "Noitatpmet tuohtiw skolf elbmuh, erehwyreve secaf yldneirf."
Wesley had been waiting anxiously for her to finish. "Dniwnu tnac i fi ees annog, Kraphtuos ot nwod noig."
Angel finished even more quickly. "Timmad dog, thgin ro yad, gnikrap elpma."
None of them said anything at all for a minute and nothing appeared to have happened. "Is that it?" Cordelia asked. Not that it would have surprised her in the slightest if Doyle had screwed up yet again.
'Apparently so.'
Cordelia was about to hurl some insults in Doyle's direction when it occurred to her that last statement was in a voice she'd never heard before. "Who said that?"
'I did. I thought no one heard me.'
"Well I sure did. Is that you, Dennis?"
'Yes. But I don't think the others hear me.'
"Hey, anybody hear Dennis besides me?"
"You can hear 'im?" Doyle asked incredulously. "'cause I can't."
"Nor can I," interjected Wesley. "But he is speaking to you?"
"Sure is," Cordelia chirped. "Hey Dennis, is it the root beer you like best or the grape soda? I haven't figured that one out."
'Root beer. I like grape too though.'
"Yep. It's Dennis. Cool! Thanks, Doyle!" Cordelia was sufficiently thrilled at the idea of chatting with Dennis she forgot her previous misgivings--about both the spell and Doyle--and hugged Doyle, much to his delight.
'You know, someone's being very quiet right now,' Dennis told her.
"Huh?" But then it dawned on Cordelia that Angel hadn't said anything, and she turned to look at him. Wesley and Doyle already were looking at him. Angel had flattened himself against the wall and looked more than a little shaken, not to mention uncomfortable.
"Hey man, everythin' okay over there?" asked Doyle hesitantly.
Angel actually looked a little frightened. "I can't hear Dennis, but I can see him," Angel squeaked out.
"You what? What does he look like? Is he good-looking? I don't want to share my apartment with anybody who looks like him," she added, shoving Doyle.
"Hey!" Doyle and Dennis protested at the same time.
Angel wasn't paying attention to the question. "And I see Dennis' mother, she's still here and she's really, really mad at us. And there's other people here too, and the demons are here..."
"Good Lord. You don't mean--" Wesley started to say.
"I see dead people," gasped Angel.
"Whoa, I think we need some help here," Doyle noted as Charlie fell off his stool and landed on the floor. "I didn't think my story was all that shockin' though."
"It's not," muttered the bartender. "He had fourteen shots of bourbon."
"Oh. Guess I shouldn' be flattered then, huh?"
"No."
"Okay. Can I have another scotch?"
"No."
"Please?"
"For the last time, no. Your tab's higher than Whitney Houston, I ain't giving you another."
"I'll pay for it," interrupted the young man.
"You'll what?" Doyle and the bartender asked simultaneously.
"I'll pay for his scotch. I want to hear his story," the young man announced with a loopy grin on his face.
"All right, if you insist. Your funeral," muttered the bartender.
'No, not my funeral,' thought the young man, who was far more sober than anyone at the bar would ever have guessed. He turned back to Doyle. "Keep going and I'll keep buying," he deliberately slurred.
"I found it! Curse the damn thing," Wesley had been pleased for exactly one half second before his right ring finger fell off. He was now down to two fingers and a thumb on that hand. At least he still had a hand there; the left one had fallen off half an hour ago.
"The third artifact?" asked Cordelia eagerly. At least that was what Wesley thought she said; it sounded more like 'traward artfat' in the honking sounds which now passed for her voice. She looked much more like a penguin than a human now, and she was waddling all over the office.
"Yes, that's it. And frankly, it's a little disappointing," he added, "it looks like a failed attempt at a doorstop. Or rather a paperweight, it's too small for a door."
"What does it look like?" croaked Angel. An uptight mobster had him backed against the wall and was choking him.
"Purple, nearly to the point of being black. Really, it just looks like a stone, but it is in fact a talisman of some sort," Wesley continued reading while praying his middle finger would stay on his hand. "And it has powers on its own; it can protect whoever carries it from harm, and it's rather notorious for interfering with magic and spells."
"Interfering with...spells?" Angel had finally managed to dislodge his unwelcome friend and had a moment before the next angry spirit showed up. "Like maybe--"
"--a spell to give a ghost his voice back?" Wesley finished. "That might explain this. Obviously something didn't go right, an interfering talisman would account for that."
"But who has this thing?" honked Cordelia.
They all realized who had it at the same time. "Doyle."
"And if the talisman protects its bearer, that would explain why nothing untoward happened to Doyle," Wesley concluded.
"All the same, I think I better find him," Angel said resignedly.
So, Angel was really a bit freaked out. Seems all manner o' dead spirits, some he was 'sponsible for an' some he wasn't, they all figured out he could see 'em an' they all wanted a piece of him. Not much fun for him. An' weird stuff was happenin' to Wes an' Cordy too.
"Aren't you a little old to be seeing dead people? I mean, it was kids in the movie, you are way too old for that stuff," Cordelia informed Angel.
"All I can tell you is I see a whole bunch of dead people in here right now, and they are not happy with me. Ouch!" Dennis' mother was pinching Angel's cheeks and not out of fondness, either. "Cut it out!"
Doyle was frantically searching through the spell book for an explanation. "We did it just the way it says, an' there's nothin' about seein' ghosts, or about all ghosts, just the one specific one. I don't know what happened."
Cordelia glared at Doyle. "I knew you would screw this up somehow." She turned to Wesley. "Not that you wouldn't screw it up too, but didn't I say he'd screw this up?"
"Darlin', your nose is growin'," Doyle noted with amazement.
"Excuse me?"
"As I look, he's quite right, you do seem to have, uh, grown in the last minute or so," Wesley told Cordelia with a hint of amusement.
"Not funny, guys, I don't need a nose job at this point in my life."
"You're gonna soon at that rate," Doyle informed her, grinning.
"My word!" Wesley yelped.
Angel had finally driven off Dennis' mother and was tackling Griff at the moment. "Is there something I should know about?" he yelled.
"I believe one of my toes just fell off," Wesley said as calmly as he could, slipping off his left shoe. "Make that two of them."
"I'm getting out of here," Angel announced as he pushed past the sudden crowd of variously perished people who suddenly wanted his attention. "Maybe they won't follow me to the office." He shoved his way out of the apartment and headed for the sewers.
Cordelia's nose was still growing, something even she could see now. And when she tried raise her hand, it appeared her fingers were sticking together. "This is your fault, Doyle. Entirely, totally and completely, your fault."
"But I did it exactly the way the book says, maybe it's the book's fault, I mean, everythin' can't be my fault..."
"Doyle...it's your fault," Wesley informed him, and both he and Cordelia left.
Doyle stood in the middle of Cordelia's living room alone. "It's not my fault!"
Angel bolted for the sewers, hoping to dodge the dozen or so spirits in the hallway long enough to make it underground. He did, barely. Not that it helped much, because apparently a surprising number of people--and demons--had met their respective fates in the sewers. And they all wished to have a word with him.
'What went wrong?' he wondered to himself as he wrestled himself free from a drunk who must have fallen through a manhole years ago. Angel had skimmed over the spell himself and he hadn't seen anything which might have produced a result like this. Then again, he didn't see that it was really that important to cast the spell in the first place. Talking with Dennis could be convenient, but it wasn't really that necessary.
He had finally shaken the drunk and a teenage suicide when he was approached by a young and rather pretty woman. Assuming she was another spirit, Angel tried to shove her aside as well. But, he quickly discovered, she was very much alive.
"What the hell are you doing?" she screamed as he slammed her against the sewer walls.
Angel was very much surprised. "You--are you alive?" he asked her, realizing even as he said it that sounded really lame.
"I was until just now," she snapped. "I don't have time for this. Just give me the talisman and we'll forget this ever happened."
"Talisman?" Angel was now even more surprised and hadn't the slightest idea what she was talking about. "Listen, I don't know why you're down here and you're going to run into something worse than me if you stay here."
"Worse than you?" she asked in irritation. "I'll show you worse than you." And with that, she changed into a demon.
Angel had been so distracted by the spirits, not to mention the standard sewer stink, he hadn't even noticed she wasn't actually human. But the horns sprouting in a ring around her face weren't subtle and neither was her tail.
"Now give it to me!" she roared.
"Give you what?" Angel asked in irritation. "I can give you what for, and that's it."
The demon charged at Angel in rage. Angel was able to leap out of the way in time, but in the meantime some drug addict long since overdosed had turned up and wanted a discussion. The ghost sufficiently distracted Angel that the demon was able to tackle him to the sewer floor on its second try. But the demon was nowhere near the end of her surprises for Angel; after throwing him to the ground, she again screamed in rage and fled without another word.
"An' it's obvious to me they ain't gonna be wantin' me around for a long while, maybe not again ever, so I didn't bother goin' back to the office. Just came straight here an' started drinkin'. But it's not my fault, right? An' even if it is, I don't know what I did wrong." Doyle sighed and dropped his head onto the bar. "I need more scotch."
"Unh huh, okay," agreed the young man. "As soon as I get back. I'll be right back." He staggered to his feet and wobbled his way in the direction of the restrooms, but as soon as he was out of sight he started walking normally and soberly. Instead of going to the men's room, he went to the pay phones and dialed a number he knew well.
"Hello?"
"Di'na, the vampire doesn't have it."
"Tell me something I didn't already know."
"The half-breed's got it."
"Thank your evil gods. We don't have much time left."
"He's quite drunk now. I've been buying his drinks."
"Keep him there and that way. He's caused me enough trouble today. I'll be there in a minute." She hung up.
The young man took a moment to mull over the many riches and powers his demon lover had promised him for his cooperation. "It's your fault, all right buddy," he said to himself. "Your fault I'm going to be in charge here real soon."
"Do either of you have any idea where Doyle might have gone?" Angel asked.
"Wronka akka akka onk!" squawked Cordelia. Both Angel and Wesley stared at her for a moment, then both decided they might as well ignore her.
"We left him at the apartment," Wesley told Angel. "Oh, God save the Queen, there goes the middle one. And the gesture I so wanted to give Doyle when we find him."
"Save it," growled Angel. "If we don't find him--and that artifact--that's going to be the least of your problems."
"Very well," Wesley sighed. "But I'm not familiar with his habits either. And reasonably sure I wouldn't want to be."
"Skrunouk-k-k!" Cordelia managed to hit some sounds Angel didn't know even a penguin could make and succeeded in attracting his attention again. Once he was looking, she used a flipper to launch a bottle of wine skyward.
"Cordelia, no, not the 1922 Chateau-Briand!" screeched Wesley, but fortunately Angel was quick enough to catch it. "I'm sorry we're not listening to you but we can't understand you!"
"Actually, I think I do understand," murmured Angel. "She thinks Doyle's out drinking. And for once he has reason to be. I should have thought of that."
"Well then, find him at once," fumed Wesley. The last remainders of his left leg had just fallen off.
"Not that simple," answered Angel dejectedly. "Doyle's a veteran drinker, he knows every place in town. He could have gone anywhere." Angel yanked his duster away from a ghost which apparently had the intent to make off with it. "I'll start with the close ones and work my way to his old apartment. If he's not between here and there..."
I would have been a lot more worried if I had known what happened to Angel after he left Cordy's. I mighta been on my guard then. But I didn't and I wasn't.
Doyle was still sitting on the barstool when the young man returned from the restroom. Although Doyle had had quite a bit to drink this evening, and it had been a couple of years now since he'd gone on such a tear with the imbibing, he still thought he was far too sober. He could still think. So he was more than glad to see his benefactor return.
"Man, I really hate to ask ya, but could ya get me another scotch?" he asked hopefully.
"Sure, sure," warbled the young man. "Hey, I don't think I can stay up on here much longer. Maybe we should go talk, like, over there or something." He shakily gestured towards the booths against the far wall.
Doyle wasn't having trouble staying on his stool, not yet anyway, which was half of why he wanted to keep drinking. But to keep drinking, he would have to keep playing the young man's game, whatever that was. "Sure, man," Doyle agreed, and followed the young man to a booth out of the bartender's line of sight.
But the moment they sat down, Doyle vaguely noticed the young man didn't seem nearly as intoxicated as he had appeared seconds before. As a matter of fact, Doyle thought distantly, he looks cold sober. 'And he's not looking at me real nice either,' he added to himself. "Hey--somethin' wrong buddy?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. But you can fix it for me. And it won't be hard at all," the young man grinned.
Doyle didn't like that grin at all. It reminded him of vampires right before they changed form. Doyle hesitated a moment to see if the young man would change, but he didn't. Besides, he smelled human--but then again, Doyle couldn't smell much of anything at the moment. "Ya know," Doyle stalled, "I ain't got the slightest idea what you're talkin' 'bout."
"I know. You have no idea what's going on and that's why it's all your fault," the kid was still grinning that way.
"It is?" Now Doyle was really getting confused, not to mention very uncomfortable. "Maybe another scotch would help? You promised."
"But the solution is easy."
"Okay...what is it?"
"The stone you picked up in the museum. Give it to me and everything will be right for both of us."
"It will?" Doyle really didn't understand at all, and he'd already forgotten he'd mentioned the stone earlier. For that matter he'd forgotten about the stone entirely until he started recounting the story of his day. And something about this whole thing really struck him as wrong, not to mention as dangerous, but his mind wasn't quite working at full capacity right now.
"That stone is bad luck. Bad things happen to people who have it. That's why everything went wrong for you today. But if you give it to me, no more bad luck," the young man told Doyle, speaking to him almost as though Doyle were a five-year-old.
The idea of unburdening himself of the day's myriad disasters was very tempting. But the young man's patronizing attitude was grating, and it dimly registered on Doyle that he'd been having bad luck all day well before he found the stone. "No, thanks," Doyle informed the young man. "I'm gonna give it back to the museum, if I remember to. I was 'sposed to do that today, wasn't I? Nuts."
The grin disappeared and anger began to seep into the young man's face. "I strongly suggest you give it to me," he said with anger in his voice as well. "You'll be sorry if you don't."
"I'm already sorry. I'm a sorry, sodden mess. An' I don't see how givin' you somethin' that ain't yours either is gonna make anythin' better. Hell, I'll probably get in worse trouble."
"Shut up and give it to me!" the young man howled and reached across the table with the intent of dragging Doyle back across it. But he couldn't get his hands on Doyle; they slid right off his clothes. In frustration he tried to punch Doyle, but instead seemed to strike a wall of air right in front of Doyle.
"Hate t' tell ya, buddy, I think ya missed," Doyle noted in astonishment.
"Maybe. But Di'na won't miss," snapped the young man.
'Di'na? Who the hell's that?' Doyle wondered to himself. He only had to wonder for a minute though, because that was when a she-demon flattened the door to the bar and stomped her way directly to the booth where Doyle and the young man were sitting. The bartender, for his part, took one look and scampered out the back.
"Does he still have it?" the demon thundered loudly.
The young man seemed to shrink back just the slightest bit. "Di'na, he does. But I can't touch him. And he won't give it up."
Di'na backed Doyle into the corner. Doyle would have loved to have gone through the wall; the demon was ugly and her breath was pretty nasty. And he was sure she had nothing good planned for him.
"Give me the talisman and I may let you live," she rumbled.
Doyle had already figured out he wasn't going to live a second after he gave up the stone, although it wasn't clear to him yet how long he'd live if he kept it. "Ya know, it's kinda pretty an' all, I was thinkin' I might give it t' my girlfriend. She's better lookin' than ya," he added, putting on his best wacky grin.
Di'na failed to see the humor involved and reached for his throat with her claws. But her claws slid off him as easily as had the young man's hands and she roared in frustration. 'Definitely gonna hang onto this thing,' Doyle thought.
"Di'na, now what?" asked the young man cautiously.
"We'll simply have to find another way," snarled Di'na. "But the three are in the room. I can start." She backed away from both of them and to the center of the room. She began chanting in some ancient language Doyle didn't know and a wind picked up inside the room. Suddenly a hole burst from the floor in the center of the room and flames leapt from it..
"Uh-oh," Doyle announced to himself. "Hellmouth."
Angel had no idea there were so many bars in Los Angeles. He should have realized how many dead people there were in Los Angeles, but he had no idea how many of them had died in bars. The whole 'seeing spirits' thing was more than a little old for him now, and he was nearly exhausted from trying to get from bar to bar past, through, or in spite of the accosting ghosts.
He was close to giving up the search when he saw a man running as fast as he could down a nearby alleyway. He was alive--and he was wearing a bartender's apron. Angel stepped into the man's way and yanked him off his feet.
"Where's the fire?" Angel asked him.
The man pointed behind him. "There's a monster in my bar!" he shrieked.
"A monster?" Maybe, just maybe...
"It's huge! And horns and--"
"Where's your bar?"
"Two blocks, that way."
"Thanks." Angel dropped the man on the ground unceremoniously and took off.
It wasn't too hard to figure out which bar once Angel got closer. One establishment on the street was presently missing its front door and there was a tremendous amount of noise and light coming from it that somehow didn't look or sound like a disco. But it did look and sound like an inferno. The demon had the Hellmouth open. Swell, just swell.
Angel ran to the door and reached it just in time to see Di'na throw the first two artifacts into the Hellmouth. And on the far side of the room, he could see Doyle fighting with some young fellow, but it really wasn't much of a fight. Doyle was far too drunk to land any significant punches and the young man must have been drunk too, because none of his blows seemed to be having any effect on Doyle. That was good, anyway; obviously Doyle still had the talisman, and until the third artifact went into the Hellmouth, they could still get it closed. It was then that it dawned on Angel how they might be intending to get that third artifact into the Hellmouth.
Di'na had abandoned the new Hellmouth in favor of trying to grab Doyle. While this enterprise appeared remarkably similar to trying to catch a greased pig, Di'na and her mate did succeed in maneuvering Doyle far too close to the Hellmouth and Angel realized what they had in mind. They wanted Doyle to fall in, and with his present intoxicated state that wouldn't be difficult. And that would be the end of him...and probably of Los Angeles, for that matter. He had to get to the other side of the Hellmouth, and now.
Angel backed up to the doorway. He was going to need one hell of a running start, and he would still have to produce a jump even better than the one that had landed Doyle on the Beacon. He sprinted towards the Hellmouth with as much speed as he could produce in only a few steps, planted one foot at the edge of the giant hole and leaped with every of strength he could find in his legs. He could feel the scorching heat and rushing air leaving the Hellmouth as he passed over it and briefly wondered if the air might be enough to draw him in. But he landed on the far side safely, albeit with only an inch or two to spare.
Neither Di'na nor her consort had seen Angel come in and they weren't aware of his presence until he landed between them. Unfortunately Doyle hadn't seen Angel until then either and he was too surprised to move. Di'na took advantage to trip Doyle, and the sudden loss of balance carried him over the edge of the Hellmouth. Angel lunged far over the edge and tried to grab Doyle, but his fingers closed on air.
"Doyle! No!" he screamed as he could only watch Doyle disappear into the smoke and heat.
"The Hellmouth shall stay open forever," Di'na purred with a smile, and turned her glaring eyes on Angel. "And you will be the first to follow him."
But before she could push Angel over the edge, her consort interrupted. "I think we might have a problem first," he choked.
A problem for them, Angel realized immediately when he looked back at the Hellmouth. He supposed it was a problem for him too, but a much bigger one for them. Inexplicably, the winds of the Hellmouth had blown Doyle back out and were holding him up in the air above it. "Angel!" Doyle hollered. "I promise I won't look down if you get me the hell out of here!"
"Dammit!" screamed Di'na. "The talisman won't let him fall!"
Angel had already figured that out; if the talisman protected its bearer, it certainly wasn't going to let the bearer fall into Hell. He wished he'd thought of that sooner. But better, Di'na was too preoccupied with her screeching to think about Angel. He stepped behind her and pushed as hard and as quickly as he could and she fell over the edge. She grabbed at her consort as she fell but only succeeding in pulling him in after her.
It seemed like hours he could hear her screaming--and Doyle yelling too, for that matter--but eventually her scream stopped. And when it stopped, so did the swirling winds. The Hellmouth closed as suddenly as it had appeared and the floor of the bar reformed as if nothing had ever happened. Doyle landed on the floor with a pronounced thump and a collection of expletives.
"Doyle! Are you okay?" Angel rushed over to check on his very vocal sidekick.
"Only hurt my damn pride," complained Doyle. "An' my rump. Couldn't it just set me down?"
"Probably asking a little too much from a talisman there," Angel informed him, trying not to smile. Not smiling became a lot easier when Angel saw the ghosts coming in the door. They must have been scared off by the Hellmouth, but with its disappearance they were already back to make him miserable.
"Thanks for remindin' me--I don't ever wanna see this thin' again," Doyle pulled the stone out of his pocket and hurled it as hard as he could against the wall. The stone shattered in an explosion of lights and sparks before settling as a pile of dust against the wall.
"Nice shot," Angel remarked, impressed especially considering Doyle's inability to throw a rock at a window. Then it dawned on him the ghosts had vanished. "The dead have gone home."
"Oh shoot, I forgot about that," Doyle reddened. "What happened to ya after ya left?"
"I don't remember the dead being that annoying before, but they just disappeared. Maybe because that thing's gone," Angel noted. "I hope it fixed things for Wesley and Cordelia. They weren't doing too well when I left."
"What on earth happened?" Wesley demanded before Doyle and Angel could even enter the office.
"There better be a really good explanation for this," Cordelia started to tell Doyle, then reconsidered and turned to Angel. "You explain it. I know he can't."
"Hey!" Doyle protested.
"I found Doyle, I threw the Danos demon in the Hellmouth, it closed, case closed," recited Angel. "And Doyle destroyed the talisman."
"I wondered," Wesley remarked. "One moment I had lost all remaining limbs and Cordelia was a full-blown penguin. The next moment it was as though none of this happened."
"I wish it hadn't," Doyle noted.
"Not nearly as much as we don't and don't argue," Cordelia snapped.
"Can I start today over?" Doyle whimpered.
"No," Angel told him, "But you can start over tomorrow. I promise I'll forget today."
Doyle looked hopeful. "Ya mean it?"
Angel shrugged. "You didn't know what that thing was."
"Well that's all swell and terrific, but what about my shoes?" complained Cordelia.
"Princess, I would be so much more 'n glad to get you new ones if you won't be mad at me," Doyle tried sweet-talking Cordelia and to surprise it appeared to be working.
"Expensive shoes, Doyle. Nothing cheap. And I guarantee you nothing," she announced.
"That was a yes, wasn't it?" Doyle asked.
Wesley wasn't satisfied yet though. "Were you planning to do anything for my benefit to make up for your antics today?"
"As a matter of fact, no," Doyle snapped.
"Very well. Angel, you should be aware that Doyle promised your services as a museum tour guide to our young friend Jimmy," Wesley announced imperiously.
"You did?" Angel asked. Doyle simply reddened and shrugged. "Sounds like a good idea, actually."
"It does?" Doyle and Wesley both asked at the same time. But Wesley wasn't through yet. "Then you should also know Doyle further promised the young man that we would teach him the black arts." Wesley folded his arms in triumph.
"You did what?" Angel turned back to Doyle and this time he wasn't happy.
"Ya know, I think I'll be leavin' right 'bout now," Doyle said weakly.
THE END
©copyright 2000 Gonzai
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