"Angel Investigations." For the fortieth time that day, Doyle answered the phone, a thread of impatience creeping into his voice.

Angel lifted his gaze from the book he was reading and glanced through the glass of his office window, watching Doyle's jaw tighten as he listened to the caller on the other end. It was hot in the office, unseasonably and unaccountably hot, and Doyle was stripped down to the white t-shirt he usually wore under his horrid paisley wardrobe.

"No, lady, this isn't the city morgue. You'll have to-" Doyle broke off, tugging a hand through his hair as he waited for her to finish. "Sorry I can't help you." Disgusted, he tossed the phone back into the cradle and stood up, hands on hips, fidgeting in place. "Damn it," he said, looking around desperately, looking for a way out.

Too late, Angel looked away, but Doyle caught his eyes as they darted back to the book. He was in the doorway in moments, a bundle of raw energy. "Angel, man, when's Cordy comin' back from Sunnydale? I can't keep up with this...you know...this...secretary stuff." He made a helpless gesture toward the desk, where the phone was already ringing again. "Now that the phone company's got our number mixed up with the morgue, the phone never stops ringin'!"

"I told you it wasn't necessary for you to sit out there," Angel reminded him patiently. "I can get the phone myself."

"Yeah, well, you're the boss around here. How would that look?" Doyle asked. "I can't see it, personally. What if someone comes in? I know it's unlikely, but still. Cordy'd have my head."

"Forget about her." Angel rose from the chair and stretched slowly, never taking his eyes from Doyle's. "We don't have any clients at the moment. Why don't you go home?"

Something flashed across Doyle's face, something lonely and wounded, but it was gone in an instant. "Sure," he said smoothly, not quite covering the strange mournfulness in his eyes. "That place of mine could use a good cleanin' anyway."

"Or stay," Angel said simply, reading the shadows that passed slowly across Doyle's expression. "You can help me unpack some of my books. There's still a lot of boxes cluttering up the place downstairs."

"Not my idea of an excitin' evening," Doyle answered, but there was a warm smile on his face as he spoke. "But it's better than sittin' home alone."

"Thought it might be." Angel stepped out from behind the desk and moved toward Doyle, who backed away immediately like a skittish rabbit.

It was a pattern with them lately. Angel got too personal, became too friendly, and Doyle retreated into the defensive distance of jokes and solitude. Yet, distance between them seemed to bother Doyle just as much, although he went to great pains to keep that fact from Angel.

Doyle seemed almost afraid Angel might get close enough to really know him, to see inside places he was guarding carefully, safe from examination. There was more to it than met the eye, but Angel knew if he gave his friend time, the barriers would crumble. He was counting on it; there were parts of Doyle he wanted very badly to know, to see and touch, but the time would come for that. He could afford to be patient.

"Wonder what kind of spin Cordelia's putting on her experiences here," Angel said with a small smile, trying to put the younger man at ease.

"I dread to think. Can't you just see it? We're all probably her assistants in her little fantasy," Doyle answered, grinning at the prospect.

"Probably." Angel reached for the door to lock it, and a shadow loomed outside in the waning sunlight. Before the man could knock, he pulled the door open and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Package for Angel Investigations." The messenger handed Angel a small, square box, along with an electronic clipboard. "Sign here."

Angel handed the package to Doyle, who proceeded to pry into the wrapping as Angel signed and handed back the board. "What is it?" he asked, closing and securing the door.

"Beats me. See for yourself." Doyle lifted out a small but beautiful piece of polished black stone and handed it to Angel.

Angel turned it over in his hands. The sides were smooth and cold, scored with strange symbols carved deep into the surface. The odd language seemed vaguely familiar...

"Sanskrit," Angel said softly.

"What's that?" Doyle asked, getting to the bottom of the box. He whipped out a small letter and handed it over, trading it for the stone. "Addressed to you."

With one quick tear, Angel was into the envelope and had the letter in his hands. He read it through once, then stuffed it back into the envelope without comment.

"What is it?" Doyle asked, frowning.

"Nothing important. Come on, I'll cook you some dinner." Angel folded the envelope in half and stuffed it in his pocket, pushing the contents of the note far away from conscious thought as he followed Doyle to the lift.

"Eggs again?" Doyle asked hopefully.

"What else?"

*********

Angel cooked, Doyle ate until there were no more eggs, and they made light conversation over dinner. Once the meal was over, Angel raked out a couple of glasses and poured them each a shot of whiskey. He'd begun keeping beer and whiskey on hand for Doyle, and orange juice for Cordelia; it was little enough, since he had no expenses in that area himself. Doyle made no apologies for his love of liquor, and Angel could still appreciate the harsh bite of a good drink once in a while. It gave them something to do together, without delving into deep, dark secrets.

Doyle nursed his drink as they sat in companionable silence, each musing over private thoughts. Angel stole a look at his friend, slouched in his chair, legs slung up on the nearest corner of the kitchen table. Those same shadows played across his face, presenting a fascinating, always-changing tableau. Angel was seized with a sudden urge to ask him what made him so afraid, why he felt he couldn't reveal his past, but he hesitated, unwilling to ruin the moment.

With great interest, Doyle examined the bottom of his small glass, and Angel could almost feel the question about to be born. He wanted some insight into the lonely depths of Doyle's heart, and he suppressed the urge to reach out, to touch his friend. Doyle would say what was on his mind, or he wouldn't. Either way, there was nothing to be gained by pushing.

He knew Doyle could feel his curiosity as his glance traveled the length of Doyle's body, fueling his imagination. Not for the first time, Angel wondered what it would be like to be with Doyle, to know the taste of his skin, or how much pressure it would take to open those lips to a kiss. As he watched, Doyle began to blush without ever meeting his eyes, and Angel smiled a little. Attraction was there between them, unspoken. And it would stay that way, until Angel could find away to break through the wall.

"So, Angel...what was in that letter?" Doyle polished off the drink and set the glass down with a thud.

"Nothing worth repeating." Angel tried to keep his tone neutral.

"And that little rock thingie would be...what, exactly?" Doyle pressed.

Angel hoped his irritation wasn't showing on his face. "It has to do with a favor for someone I helped once. Why don't you go put it back in the carton it came in? I'm going to have to deliver it tomorrow. Set it up on the bookshelf and pull those other boxes out. I'll be there in a minute." Angel stood and began to pile dishes into the sink, turning his back to Doyle in the process.

"All right," Doyle said slowly. The legs of his chair scraped on the linoleum as he pushed it back and rose to his feet, heading for the living area.

Angel waited until he heard the sound of book boxes being dragged around in the other room before pulling the letter out of his pocket. He tugged open a drawer next to the sink and took out a packet of matches. Within moments, the letter was ablaze, and he watched as Giles' handwriting blackened and turned to ash among the remnants of eggs and whiskey in the sink.

"Do you smell somethin' burnin'?" Doyle called from the other room.

"Candle," Angel answered, striking another match and setting it to the wick of the emergency candle over the sink. He watched until the last remnants of the paper were obliterated, then picked up the candle and took it with him into the living room.

Piles of books had magically appeared on the tables and floor next to the wrought iron bookcases. Doyle knelt among the dusty evidence of Angel's past, leafing through a volume of poetry. "I didn't know you were such a romantic," he grinned, looking up into Angel's face.

The mischievous, wicked light in his eyes stopped Angel in his tracks for a moment. He blinked, tilting his head, but Doyle's gaze was steadfast. Possibilities ran through Angel's mind - he was tired, the alcohol was having a slight effect on his perception - but his mind returned to the same theme over and over... I wonder what he tastes like.

With effort, he turned away and began shoving books onto shelves with haphazard disregard, slamming them into place with a violence that caused the racks to shudder. Behind him, the soft voice began to read, lending a gentle Irish lilt to the words. "That man seems to me to be equal to a god...the tongue is paralyzed, a fine fire spreads down through my limbs, the ears ring with their very own sound, both my eyes are veiled in darkness..."

"Stop it," Angel ordered, voice made ragged by the power of emotions caught in his throat. His head was swimming.

"It's your book," Doyle said mildly. There was the distinct noise of a volume snapping shut, a shuffling sound, and the voice began again:

"For, where the irresistible storm had cloven
That fearful darkness, the blue sky was seen,
Fretted with many a fair cloud interwoven
Most delicately, and the ocean green,
Beneath that opening spot of blue serene,
Quivered like burning emerald..."

"Doyle," Angel said harshly. The temperature in the room seemed to have gone up twenty degrees.

"Angel."

The sound of his name on those lips, spoken in that soft, low tone, brought him around to see Doyle's expression.

Doyle was looking at him...no, looking at him, almost as though he had never seen Angel before. Pale eyes traveled across Angel's face, lingering on his lips long enough to cause Angel to imagine heat there. He shook his head and a puzzled frown appeared as the steady examination continued, moving slowly southward across his chest and landing squarely at his groin. Doyle stared for a moment as though transfixed, and his lips parted slightly as the tip of his tongue appeared, moistening them.

A strange kind of euphoria descended across Angel's senses. He raised his head and found himself staring at Doyle's slender neck, at the curve of his ass beneath his jeans, at the liquid blue eyes.

And strangest of all, Doyle was still looking at him, with an expression of focused lust, his eyes bright and narrow, his lips still slightly apart, almost as though he were about to speak.

Angel's mouth found its way to those open, wet lips, and his tongue pushed between, invading without permission. In answer, Doyle opened to him, bringing his hands to Angel's neck and face, pulling him closer, making his answer clear. Their teeth clacked together with bone-jarring force, hard enough to make Doyle wince. He caught Angel's questing tongue by reflex, dragging his teeth across it and producing a hissing, hot sigh of pleasure from Angel.

Angel shoved, pulling clothes off Doyle all the while. A push, and a tearing of fabric, until the shirt and undershirt were shredded away, and Doyle was propelled several steps closer to the bedroom. All the while, their lips touched, fused, and they breathed into one another, panting for air, neither caring if they suffocated for want of it. All that mattered was the contact, the heat, the sensation of being swallowed, the intoxication of lust.

Doyle bit at Angel in a frenzy, nipping and sucking at the skin of his neck, his earlobes, his lips. Angel knocked Doyle back onto the bed and followed him quickly. He pressed his thumbs to Doyle's nipples and followed the hard pressure with a licking, rhythmic sucking.

"Ah, Jesus!" Doyle gasped, hands closing on Angel's head, buried in the softness of his spiky hair. Angel held Doyle in place with his enormous strength, wrapping his arms around the slender body, giving all his attention to those erect nipples, listening with satisfaction to the low, uneven moans from deep in Doyle's throat. And then back to the lips, already swollen and bruised from abuse by Angel's mouth.

Doyle tore open Angel's shirt, oblivious to the buttons flying in every direction, and Angel snarled, a primitive sound of approval, as Doyle broke away and pressed kisses to his torso. Impatient, he allowed the exploration for a brief interval, as Doyle worshipped his body with tongue and hands.

"Enough!" Angel growled, and some part of his mind heard the raw edge of anger in his tone, felt it vibrating through his body, and marveled at it. His hands dropped to Doyle's jeans, tugging open the fly and reaching in for the hard length nestled against Doyle's belly. The smaller man's cock jumped in his firm grasp as he slid his fingers down, owning everything he touched.

With a quick yank, he pulled the jeans and briefs down over Doyle's hips, freeing the erection to his eyes and hands. Doyle flushed with desire and need as Angel's hand cupped his length, stroking it slowly. His head dropped back against the pillows. "Get on with it," he begged quietly.

Angel took hold of his chin with his free hand, forced it up, leaned close so his words were whispered softly against Doyle's ear. "Tell me what you want," he demanded, in a voice as silky soft as satin against Doyle's skin. "I want to hear it."

"Jesus, Angel, fuck me!" Doyle answered breathlessly, as that hand moved on him in a private, inescapable rhythm.

The sound of those words, in that voice, caused an erotic shiver to tear through Angel. His mind exploded into tiny shards of heat and glass, and he worked his way down that body, touching, marking, claiming. He bit at Doyle, pulling skin between his teeth and tasting the salt and arousal, savoring the taste, satisfying his craving.

A part of his mind reminded him he had nothing to prepare Doyle with, but it was almost as though the other man read his thoughts. He rolled onto his back with the motion of Doyle moving, and a hoarse cry signaled his pleasure when Doyle's mouth engulfed his shaft, tip to base.

Angel watched with fascination and growing desire as Doyle concentrated on his task, writhing against the sheets, touching himself, and suckling Angel with growing intensity. It was too much.

Another tangling of limbs as Angel reached for Doyle and positioned him on his knees, hips thrust high in the air, legs spread. Doyle buried his face in the pillow and groaned as Angel's slick cock pressed against his opening, demanding entry, sliding in a bit at a time.

He was aware he must be hurting Doyle, but it seemed not to matter, not next to the feeling of ecstasy spiraling through him as he began to thrust. With every stroke, he moved deeper into Doyle's body, mingling his sounds of pleasure with those of the man beneath him. He gripped the slender hips and rolled his own hips, the motion pushing them together and filling Doyle completely.

It didn't last long, couldn't last, as the rapture built between them. Angel laid shallow bites across the territory beneath him, whispering words that barely registered, words with little meaning, as his hand enclosed Doyle's cock once again. His lips touched Doyle's skin and sent him screaming into oblivion as he came, in response to Angel's quiet command. Angel listened to the keening cry of bliss, and it carried him over the edge, into darkness.

*********

Angel woke slowly, draped across someone warm, pressing closer into the curve of a pliant body against his own. He nuzzled his face into a soft neck, breathing in Doyle's scent, listening to the small sound of pain...

Doyle.

Angel sat up in bed, ignoring his own shrieking muscles, and pulled the smaller man into his arms. "Doyle," he said urgently, as sick horror built in the pit of his stomach. "Wake up." He stared at the bruises, the bite marks, the damage he had inflicted with his own hands and teeth. "Doyle!"

To his great relief, the beautiful eyes fluttered open, fuzzy with sleep and confusion. "Angel..."

"Just hold still," Angel urged, whisking the sheet aside for a more thorough examination. He probed the bruised body of his friend...his lover, wincing as he saw the dried blood on the sheets beneath them.

"I'm all right," Doyle protested, though not in his most convincing voice.

"What the hell did I do to you?" Angel said furiously, and the anguish in his voice caused Doyle to move restlessly in those fiercely strong arms.

"Nothing I didn't want," he answered, touching Angel's face with his fingertips.

"Bullshit!" Angel felt as though he might explode; rage at his own behavior, combined with fear for Doyle, built within him, manifesting in his eyes. "I abused you. I don't know what the hell happened, I-"

"Shut up," Doyle begged. "Angel, listen. I don't know what that was, I just...you wanted me, and I...well, I -- " He hesitated, and at the questioning look, began again, in a low tone, barely audible. "I wanted to be taken by you. Hard, and brutal."

"Not like that." It was part denial of his own impulses, part refusal to accept Doyle's needs.

"Just like that. It was -- " Doyle stopped, his face contorting with what must have been pain.

"You're going to the hospital. You could still be bleeding. I might have torn something inside you."

"No hospital," Doyle protested firmly. "I'm sore, but I'll live." His eyes, wise and cynical, darkened. "You regret it, don't you?"

"I..." At a loss for words, Angel stumbled over his answer, instinctively laying his hand on Doyle's flat stomach, a gesture of comfort. "I don't know what got into me. That's not what I wanted this to be like."

"Are you sure about that? Because I didn't think it was my cup of tea, either, and, well. I was wrong." A crinkle of humor appeared at the corners of Doyle's eyes.

Angel lay back in the bed, stunned and confused. He had never entertained the thought of being rough with Doyle. Certainly not taking him like an animal. The passion had been unbelievable, but suddenly he felt like he'd taken advantage of his strength, and of his nature, and Doyle should never have had to bear the brunt of it. He was dangerous, and it had been too long since he'd had an outlet for his passion...and he should never have touched Doyle in that state...

A warm mouth covered his, interrupting his train of thought, reassuring and gentle. Hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around the body leaning against his own, running his hands over the damaged skin, mapping the bites and scratches with his fingertips.

"How do I convince you?" Doyle asked, pulling away. There was no fear in his eyes, only acceptance, and need.

"It's going to take me a while," Angel answered, lowering his lover to the bed. "I have to figure out why-" A sudden thought flashed through his mind, and he wiped his face with a hand, incredulous. "Of course," he murmured.

"What?"

"The stone," Angel said softly, gathering Doyle into his arms. "I don't know why I didn't understand before."

"What d'ya mean?" Doyle asked again, exasperated.

"The Binding Stone, the package I received yesterday. It was used in ancient times to bind one lover to another during certain spells. The one who possesses the stone is helpless to resist the object of his heart's desire. Giles sent it for me to take to a friend of his at the Getty museum. He didn't want to have it there, near the Hellmouth." Angel paused, frowning. "He knew I was safe from its influence because the object of my desire was in Sunnydale."

"Buffy," Doyle said, and for the first time, there was a twinge of envy in his voice.

"Buffy," Angel confirmed. "Which would have been great, except that it isn't true anymore. She's not the object of my desire."

"I don't want to be treated like an object," Doyle joked, but the humor fell flat in the face of the breathtaking truth, and the look in Angel's eyes.

"I've got to get that thing out of here before I kill you," Angel said, without breaking his gaze away from Doyle's.

"Then what?" Doyle asked, nuzzling Angel's neck, suddenly unable to withstand the intensity of that look.

A tongue flickered around the edge of his ear. "Then we see how good it can be when I'm not under the influence."

"Do I get a bit of recovery time first?" Doyle laughed, as lips followed tongue down the smooth curve of his neck.

"You won't need it for the things I have in mind."

Doyle trembled in his arms - just a little. "Then you'd better hurry," he said, easing back into the sheets.

"You'll be here when I get back?" Angel said, making it sound more like a statement of fact than a question.

"I'm not going anywhere."

The promise of those words, and what was behind them, was enough for both of them, for the moment. The rest would have to wait.

End

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