A spark has passed between us now
A momentary recognition
Something lost and something gained
And something shared that feels strange...
Is there anybody in there in this self-inflicted tomb?
---- "Skin", Oingo Boingo

Angel lay quietly in the dark, listening to the sound of himself not breathing, and let the silence soothe him. Outside, the city quieted as the night began its death throes, and sunrise crept closer.

It had been a tough couple of days on a bad case, lots of blood and gore and ugly demons with spiny ridges on their faces. It was par for the course as far as Angel was concerned, just another day's work. He wasn't troubled by the necessity of killing murderous demons who took pleasure in victimizing humans.

His problem was a simple one -- he craved some solitude. His time alone had been severely impacted by mandatory mingling with the needy people populating Los Angeles, and he was more than a little tired of socializing. Sometimes, he just needed to be alone. Really alone. As in, no Cordelia, no Kate, no clients.

Normally, that sentiment of exclusion would have extended to Doyle, but there had been something wrong with his personal oracle over the last few days. Angel hadn't lived over 200 years without picking up the knack of deciphering odd behavior, and Doyle's was very much on his mind. His friend was slinking around like a frightened animal, avoiding Angel's eyes, coming around the office less and less.

It was pretty clear what was going on. Doyle was in trouble again, and afraid to ask for help. Ever since Angel had taken the plunge and asked about Doyle's lifestyle, his friend had gone out of his way to act as though nothing were wrong. Angel didn't buy it for a second and he was half tempted to shadow Doyle, just to get at the truth.

But he was supposed to be past those underhanded impulses...and he was supposed to trust his friends. Not that he had many. Even more reason to be honest with the ones he had.

He flipped over in the bed, tugging impatiently at the sheet as it wound around him, tangling between his bare legs. In the office that afternoon, Cordelia had dressed his rapidly healing cuts and bruises, and he'd looked up to see concern in Doyle's eyes. And something else...

That look was keeping him awake.

His body reminded him it had been a long time since anyone had wanted him in exactly that way, and an even longer time since he'd wanted them in return. The hard part was convincing himself not to care, not to take the chance, not to allow himself even the momentary pleasure of fantasy where Doyle was concerned. He resisted the impulse to respond to Doyle's longing look, and it had been tough to drop his eyes, knowing the wounded expression he'd see if he raised them again.

He wanted to get near the core of Doyle's life, to understand what damaged him, to set it right. And he didn't want to be responsible for hurting him, or adding to his fear of exposing too much, being too close. They had that much in common at least. They'd known each other for months, and Doyle's trust in Angel touched him, but it wasn't enough. He wanted in, all the way.

With effort, Angel closed his eyes and willed his mind to stop presenting him with images of Doyle, head thrown back in a moment of ecstasy, body offered up as sacrifice to their mutual need.

Still, the memory of Doyle's eyes on him lingered with him as he drifted into a kind of twilight sleep, dozing on the boundary between morning and evening. He allowed himself to float as he hesitated on the cusp of dark dreams.

And then the phone rang.

He ignored the shrill jangling for a time, because he knew it couldn't be a good thing. Since he had no friends who would bother calling just to chat, every call brought either a plea for help, or bad news.

Bad news...

He sighed and slapped for the receiver, pawing it off the bedside table and onto the sheet, where he could rest his ear against it without moving. "H'lo?" he mumbled.

"The story of my life, in ten words or less," Doyle said on the other end.

"What?" Angel asked, a frown appearing above his closed eyes.

"You asked for the story of my life. I figured I'd oblige while there's still a story to tell." Doyle coughed, a sharp sound that sent a chill through Angel. "Born, made a mess of things, that's all she wrote."

Angel's instincts blazed into full awareness, and he swung his legs out of bed as he snatched up the receiver. "Doyle? Where are you?"

"Home," Doyle said after a moment. He drew a deep, rasping breath, and added, "I've got a little problem. Could use some help..."

"I'll be right there," Angel answered, feeling the anxiety building with every second he dawdled on he phone. "Don't leave. Lock the door."

"Did that already," his friend whispered, but the line was dead.

*****

Doyle stared up at the ceiling and clutched at his ribs, trying to will the pain away and not succeeding at all. It was close to sunrise. Even if Angel made it before daylight broke, he'd have to stay. Doyle already regretted calling him. Nothing good could come of it.

The ache in his side became sharp for a moment and he gasped. The effort of taking in air made his stomach churn as fresh pain flooded his senses, scaring him. He'd never been beaten so badly before. Funny that the first thing he thought of was to call Angel.

Protection. Well, there was that, and more. No one would dare to touch him while he had a vampire for a bodyguard. Not without some pricey backup.

Doyle suddenly had an impulse to get off the bed, to greet his savior without weakness. Gathering his strength, he lunged forward, and the momentum brought him to a sitting position.

It also caused him to tumble helplessly to the floor, face contorted in a grimace of exquisite pain.

Naturally, Angel chose that moment to make his entrance, banging in the door, demolishing the cheap deadbolt which had mostly been for show anyway. Doyle rolled his eyes, but the beginnings of a laugh were choked off quickly when Angel knelt beside him, gathering him up, lifting him back onto the bed.

"What the hell happened to you?" Angel asked, catching Doyle's chin with a gentle palm, turning his face so he could examine the black eye and bloody lip. Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into the tiny bathroom, reemerging with a wet towel and a fist full of bandaids, cotton balls and other supplies swiped from the medicine cabinet.

"Had a run-in with some fellas who were looking for a guy I used to know," Doyle explained, wincing as Angel settled back on the bed beside him.

Angel threw his supplies down in a jumble, picking through them until he found the antiseptic. "And?" he prompted, dabbing at the bloody lip with the towel, whisking over the injury with some antiseptic and moving on to the various cuts on Doyle's cheek.

"Seems that fella owed them some money, and they figured I might know where he could be found, in exchange for them wiping out some accounts of mine." Doyle stoically withstood the pain of his cuts being cleaned, looking at a fixed point somewhere on the other side of the room.

"And you wouldn't tell them." Angel finished up with Doyle's face. Lips set in a grim line, he ran his hands beneath the horrendous paisley shirt and lifted it, exposing a mass of livid purple and black bruises on Doyle's torso. "Slowly," he cautioned his friend, as Doyle attempted to lift his arms to free them of the shirt. Angel took hold of each arm in turn, quickly stripping off the shirt and tossing it aside.

"Yeah, well, you know, that could be me," Doyle said defensively. "I wouldn't want them after me."

"Too late," Angel said softly, probing at the bruises with a practiced finger.

Doyle cried out and arched away from the light touch, eyes closing against agony.

"You've probably got some broken ribs," Angel said, dark eyes sweeping over Doyle's slender body. "We should get you to a hospital."

"No way, man," Doyle objected, pulling away. "D'ya know what that costs? You're a great boss, but it's not exactly like you provide an insurance plan to cover these things."

"True," Angel agreed, still staring at the mottled bruises. "I can wrap your ribs. But it's going to hurt like hell for a while."

"Do what you have to," Doyle urged, jaw set against the very thought of being touched. "Better pull the shades first, the sun's comin' up."

"Mm-hmm," Angel murmured, looking around for material to tear into strips.

"Angel, the sun," Doyle repeated, jerking his head toward the window, catching himself too late to avoid a spasm of pain. He buried his head in his hands, holding his forehead to ease the hurt.

Strong fingers gently set his hands aside, rubbing his temples with soothing, even pressure. Gratefully, Doyle dropped his hands into his lap and succumbed to the comfort of Angel's touch. Light grew in the room, and those fingers reluctantly withdrew. Doyle heard the sound of the shades being drawn, and a few moments later, the sound of his closet door opening, and then cloth ripping. Vaguely, he wondered which of his shirts Angel had chosen to destroy.

The bed sagged again, and Angel was behind him, wrapping strips of fabric around his torso. "Why didn't you call Cordelia?" Angel asked, lips close to Doyle's shoulder, brushing there as he bent forward to wrap the bandage tight. "I know you didn't want me here."

"I didn't want her to get hurt if something went down," Doyle answered truthfully. "And she couldn't..."

"What?" came the soft question, as those lips cruised gently across his shoulder blade.

"Don't," Doyle said, almost involuntarily.

"Say it," Angel demanded, hands running up Doyle's torso with sensual, purposeful strokes. He secured the wrap by tying the ends of the makeshift bandage together and tucking them in. "What did you need?"

"It wasn't safe," Doyle whispered, shivering as Angel's arms closed easily around him, careful, inescapable. "She wasn't...she couldn't..."

"Couldn't protect you?" came the low voice, and Doyle's body quivered as Angel's teeth grazed his earlobe, biting gently, retreating with a flicker of a tongue to soothe the exit. "Like I can?"

"Yes," Doyle said softly, letting his head fall back to rest against Angel's shoulder. He turned his face, seeking the curve of Angel's neck, and buried his face there. Vaguely, he realized Angel's chest was bare. "Your shirt," he mumbled, creating a vibration against Angel's skin.

"None of yours were clean," Angel replied, and turned his head. His lips feathered across Doyle's, fleeting, and he added, "Don't you ever do laundry?"

"Shut up, shut up," Doyle begged, just as those lips closed over his own.

Angel's mouth moved over his, demanding that he open to the kiss, and he parted his lips to allow entry, moaning softly. Gentle hands touched him, finding and healing invisible wounds, dragging him across the threshold of hesitation. He leaned back, resting his weight against Angel's body, giving himself over to warring emotions, to mingled feelings of total safety and deep apprehension.

The kiss deepened, tongues meeting and tasting, and caution gave way to passion as Angel ruthlessly took possession of all Doyle had to offer.

A small sound of pain, and Angel pulled back, alarmed. "I hurt you," he said, and in that instant, tasted blood on his lips. The scent and flavor of it sent a rush of intoxication through his body, awakening desires better left dormant. He licked the temptation away, without releasing the man in his arms.

"My lip," Doyle said by way of apology, bringing a hand up slowly to touch the split place, raw and tender, kissed open.

"We shouldn't do this," Angel said, trying to convince himself as much as Doyle. The heat in his body was rapidly approaching a boiling point. Doyle's blood was singing to him, awakening the need to understand him, to be inside him, to know him as well as he could be known.

"I suppose not," Doyle agreed, too quickly, defenses slamming down into place as he tried to maneuver himself away from Angel.

Angel applied a tiny bit of his strength, and Doyle found himself stretched out on the bed, trapped underneath a cage made of Angel's arms.

"That's not what I meant," Angel said. "You're hurt. Badly. You need rest more than anything, if you're going to heal on your own, without a doctor."

Doyle's body screamed at him, pointing out the wisdom of Angel's words. Hot needle-sticks of pain were flaring up all over his ribcage and back, and he felt weaker than he ever had in his life. Resigned to the truth of it, he looked into Angel's eyes, ready to ask a question, but the words faltered as he tried to speak. "I...will you..."

"I'm not going anywhere," Angel said, almost as through he'd been inside Doyle's mind when the thought was formed. "But later, there's some questions I need answers to. And you have a story to tell me."

Doyle's glance flickered down and away from the simmering heat in Angel's eyes. "That won't be easy," he said, feeling a desperate urge to run, to hide from the knowing, insistent dark gaze.

"It never is," Angel agreed, lowering his head, nudging Doyle's chin with his nose, hovering close, willing the injured man to look at him. "But there are rewards." His voice dropped low again, making Doyle shiver. Suddenly, Angel stood up, moving down the bed and shaking the messy blanket to dump the first aid supplies on the floor. He tugged off Doyle's shoes and socks, and was reaching for Doyle's belt buckle when he was stopped.

"No you don't, boyo. Not on our first date." The corner of Angel's mouth quirked up in a smile. Doyle let go of the hand, not caring that his own fingers were shaking and that Angel knew it.

Angel poked a toe through the bottles and boxes on the floor. He made a quick trip to the kitchenette to get a glass of water, and then he lifted Doyle's shoulders, holding him up as he fed him aspirin tablets one at a time, followed by swallows of water.

Doyle took the pills without comment. He was already feeling drowsy, content with the knowledge he could sleep without fear with Angel nearby. He made no protest as Angel snagged a pillow and shoved it underneath his bruised shoulders. "Thanks," he said, watching Angel settle a blanket across him. His eyes closed obediently, and within minutes, he was asleep.

*****

The day lengthened, became bright and hot, and eased into dusk while Doyle slept on. Angel watched him intermittently, warily, listening to the even breathing for signs that a lung might be punctured. He didn't want to scare Doyle, or force him to seek treatment, but he wouldn't let him die because he was stubborn, either.

Angel watched, and waited, and thought. About his incredible lack of control, his recklessness, his arrogant faith in his own ability to steer clear of what Doyle offered. He weighed the risks of caring too much, examined his heart, turned himself inside out looking for signs of emotions he had to avoid.

Just after sunset, he made his decision. There were no givens in the universe, aside from the fact that he would never love anyone again. Care, yes. But he wasn't made for happiness. There was too much danger in joy. He could take the pleasure, give it, have satisfaction in it, but that was all that would remain in the end. He hoped it would be enough for Doyle. He'd have to ask him, just to be sure.

And then, Angel mused, it would be time to put the talking aside for awhile, and teach Doyle some other ways to communicate.

End

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