Those Who Will Be Coming Back... 

The sun was barely up, casting a soft glow over the land. Birds were chirping happily in their early spring mindset, and the day promised to be mildly warm and sunny. 

Buffy was pounding on the punching bag in the basement, trying to work out her frustrations and fear, when a loud crash from upstairs echoed through the house. Racing up the twelve steps, she burst through the kitchen and came to an abrupt stop in the doorway between dining room and living room. Footsteps pounded from the steps above her but Buffy couldn’t concentrate on that. 

There was a man in her living room. 

A naked man, curled up on the floor, where the too-many times repaired coffee table once stood. 

A naked man curled up on the floor, who looked as if he’d been put through the ringer – if that ringer was made of light and electric currents that accounted for the burns on his body. 

A naked man curled up on the floor whose burns were healing right before her shocked eyes. 

Buffy moved cautiously into the living room, aware that Willow, Tara, and Xander were also there, all staring in bewildered shock. Well, what else could they do? Even for them in Sunnydale this was unusual. And that was saying a lot. 

Striding to the corner where she kept her newly acquired sword, Buffy gripped it firmly and stared at the…being before her. She was slightly disconcerted; demons crashed through her house, they tore down walls, smashed furniture, and generally destroyed the place. But they usually came from outside the house, they never suddenly appeared in her living room. 

“Ow, damn it! What the hell…?”  

“It speaks!” Xander said from the relative safety of the hallway, gripping a mace tightly in his sweating hands. The being – man – stood and Xander amended, “He speaks?” 

Buffy gripped the sword tighter and moved a step closer as the dark-haired stranger carefully stood, as if testing his body. A twinge here and there caused his handsome face to tighten in pain and the bright blue eyes darken just a little. Still staring, nice body she didn’t want to notice, Buffy couldn’t help but feel like she knew him. From where she couldn’t say, but he seemed familiar. 

Then again, it was to be hoped that naked men suddenly appearing in the middle of her living room would be partly familiar, right? 

“Can I, ah, help you?” Buffy asked and then grimaced at the question. The sword was still at the ready but she was asking inane questions. What kind of slayer was she? Other than a currently confused one. 

“Ach, lass, got a drink?” The man mumbled, Irish brogue thick and heavy in a sweet voice, still testing the aches and pains of his body. “What the bloody hell hit me?” 

He finally looked at his surroundings, frowning more at the unfamiliar sight: This was definitely not where he last remembered being. His gaze swept over the trio in the hallway and if he had any clue what was going on he would have laughed at them, they looked such a wide array of emotions that it was nearly comical. When his eyes landed on Buffy, however, he smiled. It was the one thing that didn’t seem to hurt, so he smiled wider. 

“Slayer, lass, it’s good to see you again.” When she didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge she knew him, he asked again, “Have any liquor here? A nice Irish Whisky would do me fine.” 

“Who are you?” Buffy asked, stepping closer, sword still at the ready. “And what are you doing in my house? Is this anything to do with Dawn disappearing?” 

“Dawn?” The man questioned, confused. Then again, when the last thing you remember had to do with saving the world and sacrificing your life, it was pretty understandable. To him at least. 

Taking a step further, he realized that he was naked. Okay, so his aches were somewhat disappearing, and the confusion was all but overwhelming, but he was still naked. Trying to fight the blush he knew was covering his cheeks, he asked, “Anyone have any clothes I can borrow?”
~~~~~~~~~~
Waiting impatiently for the man – who had yet to reveal his name and that made Buffy all the more annoyed – to reappear, Buffy again began to worry over Dawn. Again. 

The girl had originally told her sister she was staying at Tara’s, and Tara that she was staying at home with Buffy for quality sister bonding time. The lie unraveled fairly quickly when Tara saw Willow and asked the redhead for a blouse she still had. The couple – former couple – arrived at the Summers’ residence to find Buffy madly cleaning. 

Dawn was nowhere to be found and Tara mentioned that she thought Dawn and Buffy were spending quality time together. Frantic, Buffy scoured Sunnydale. Willow and Tara called every friend of Dawn’s they could think of, ran down Spike because Buffy seemed reluctant to involve him – in any way, shape, or form – and when that turned up empty, called Xander and met back with Buffy at her house.  

The sun was lazily rising by then, the first faint blushes of the new day creeping over the land and they agreed that sleep was needed. Buffy couldn’t, however, and went to the basement to take her frustrations out on her punching bag. As soon as it was late enough, she planned to call Dawn’s friends again, threaten them if need be, before searching the town once more.

Of course, now she had an unexpected houseguest and just where did she know him from? He seemed familiar, and there was no danger-vibe coming off him, so Buffy was fairly certain that Xander would be safe with the stranger.

The man in question walked down the stairs in clothing borrowed from Xander. It was a good thing, Buffy supposed, that her friend kept several changes of clothes in her house. Whatever would they do otherwise when strange naked men suddenly appeared needing pants? 

He appeared to be laughing over something, even though Xander didn’t share his mirth. It was almost as if the man had a secret that he desperately wanted to share but didn’t want to ruin the punch line. Perfect, a comedian. Just what she needed. 

Sword still in her grip, Buffy stood and faced the seemingly harmless man. If he didn’t try anything while changing, then what were the chances…? 

“Now that you’re clothed are you planning on telling me who you are and how you ended up in my living room?” How he knew her could wait for the moment. 

“Would you believe me, lass,” he said with an irresistible smile and a twinkle in his eyes, “That I haven’t a clue?” At her raised eyebrow, he hastened, “Honest, last I remember, I was knocking Angel over the railing, and believe me when I say I have no idea how I managed that one, and kissing Cordelia.” 

“Doyle.” Buffy said in a flat voice that bespoke none of her shock. Considering that she had heard, “You’re dead.” 

They both ignored the gasps of surprise. The first was from Xander at the kissing Cordelia part, the second from Willow and Tara, most likely at the dead part. Buffy was sure they had tons of questions for him. Imagine, two people – in the same room! – who returned from the dead. It was a Wicca’s wet-dream.  

“Well, yes, I thought so, too.” He said and, realizing he wasn’t getting anything to drink, sat on the couch Buffy recently vacated. The borrowed clothes were a little big, but other than that fit well enough. “In fact, I distinctly remember dieing, not a pleasant sensation, let me tell you.” 

“Yeah,” Buffy murmured with a distant sad look as her friends looked terribly guilty. Good, she thought but suppressed the urge to say it aloud, they should. Should have left well enough alone, so far as she was concerned “I know.” 

“Yes, well,” Doyle cleared his throat, uncomfortable, and went on. “So I kissed Delia, and the next thing I remember I was in your living room.” He looked around. “Nice digs, slayer.” 

“Thanks,” Buffy replied without realizing it. Then, “Doyle, uh, I fairly certain you died nearly two years ago.” 

She looked to her friends, now standing in a semicircle around the couch as they listened to Doyle’s short tale, for confirmation. They all shrugged; then again, none of them knew the man. They hadn’t met him for a brief introduction one fine fall day when confronting an ex. They hadn’t listened to Angel as he told her, in a flat emotionless voice, of his best friend’s death scarcely a week later. They hadn’t offered to go to LA and hold Angel as he cried, as she knew he wanted to.  

They hadn’t met Angel one night on a moonless beach near a beach house he owned and done just that. Cried with him over the death of a man he’d known for far too short a time and whose death dealt an almost fatal blow to the vampire. Hadn’t kissed Angel goodbye as the sun set on another painfully bright day and promised that if he ever needed to talk… 

“Uh, so, now you’re alive?” This was from Willow who looked like she wanted to ask more questions than that. 

“I guess,” Doyle said, dubiously. “I feel alive, or, rather, everything hurts, does that count?” 

She nodded readily, agreeing, “I’m sure it’s a step, yes.” Turning to Tara, she asked, “Do you sense anything around him?” 

Focusing on the man still sitting on the couch, the blonde witch frowned as she tried to read his aura. “Peace, harmony, a balance that was thrown off, maybe? He’s supposed to be here, Buffy,” Tara directed that last comment to the slayer. “He’s supposed to be here but I have no idea how. Just that it’s important he is.” 

Nodding, Buffy turned to Doyle who was also nodding, a smile on his face. “See?” He said, “All’s well. Now then,” he rubbed his hands together and looked around the room. “Where’s Angel?” 

Sucking in a quick painful breath, Buffy looked at the floor. “In LA, still, where else would he be?” 

“Ah, you, as,” Confused, sure that his friend was bound to get back with the slayer sooner rather than later, Doyle directed his next comments to the friends. “He’s not here? Doesn’t, isn’t…really?” 

“Nah, Dead-boy hasn’t been here more than two years,” Xander said with a smug look on his face that belied the heartbroken one on Buffy’s. Doyle decided he wanted to punch that look off the whelp’s face, but kept still and focused on the slayer.

Thinking quick, seeing no help from the boy and wondering if the rest of the friends felt the same way about Angel – and hoping, for Buffy’s sake, that they didn’t – Doyle tried again, hoping to sound more articulate this time. “I, ah, should get going then. I really want to see him and Delia again, missed them, ya know. So if you wouldn’t mind, maybe, driving me to LA?” 

“I can’t,” Buffy said and checked the time once more. Only forty minutes had passed since this whole thing began; still not late enough to call Dawn’s friends – again. Time was never on her side. “My sister, Dawn, she’s missing. I have to find her.”

Thinking quick, having noted the change in Buffy’s aura when Angel was mentioned and wondering why she’d never seen it before and how blind they all were, Tara offered. “I’ll stay, Buffy. When it’s later, I’ll call her friends again and double check the school, the park, all the places she likes to go.” 

Glancing at Xander, she continued before anyone could object. “Xander needs to get to work, Willow can help me, and it’d be better if we find her first, you, ah,” drat, Tara thought, she’d talked herself into a corner. “You, ah, might be in a better mood if you had time to relax first.” 

Xander snorted and Willow didn’t look at all convinced. Better mood after visiting Angel? What were the chances of that? About, the two childhood friends thought, the same as Dawn having gone to visit Hank Summers in LA. 

Trying once more, Tara smiled at Buffy. “It’ll just take a few hours; you can be home before school’s out, Buffy. And who knows, probably by then we’ll have found Dawn. She’s probably just with a friend, I’m sure.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Thirty minutes later Doyle was bundled into the car, still alcohol free, much to his annoyance, and still wearing clothes from Xander Harris of all people. Ah, the world was full of irony, wasn’t it? 

The slayer seemed preoccupied, and honestly, Doyle couldn’t blame her. He’d be frantic if his sister were missing. Especially on the Hellmouth. Still, that didn’t explain the two separate emotions he witnessed in her eyes. One was a deadness he couldn’t recall seeing in her eyes on the single occasion they’d met. She’d been alive then, or rather full of passion for a certain vampire Doyle considered a very close friend.  

Granted, the couple seemed off, not really together when they’d been in that same room, and Doyle wished, not for the first time, that he could remember what happened during that day Angel told him about. The one the vampire foolishly gave back. Still, the slayer’d been full of life. Now she seemed empty.  

The second was a distinct fear. Apparently, if his sense of these things was accurate and he certainly hoped death hadn’t messed with any of those senses, it was fear of Angel. Which wasn’t something Doyle ever thought to see. 

Maybe they’d hit some serious traffic and he’d get the chance to speak with her. There was a lot about Angel he wanted to know. Actually, there was a lot about the last two years he wanted to know. Buffy climbed into the car with a mutinous look on her face and a hard glint to her eye. Maybe talking with her wasn’t an option.
**********
Fifteen minutes into the ride, however, Doyle decided that he couldn’t stay silent. 

It was bad enough being dead, though he couldn’t remember that, but coming back from the dead? That was a whole other story, and one he’d very much like to hear. A painful one he’d very much like to hear even if that memory was fading as quickly as his wounds had. Still, two years had passed and a lot had to change. Cordelia, Doyle wondered, was she still an aspiring actress, or had she made it big? 

Personally, he couldn’t see that, but was willing to give his princess the benefit of the doubt. This was America; anything was possible if not probable. And Angel, what had become of his friend?  Was he still fighting, okay, yes, that was a definite yes, Doyle knew that. But he wasn’t with Buffy. That was something Doyle felt sure would happen despite the fact that it wasn’t quite working out when he’d left.  

Died.  

Whatever. 

“So,” he began and then had no idea how to actually complete that opening. “How’s it going?” 

Buffy shot him a look as they rolled out of Sunnydale and towards LA. This was going to be a long drive, she could just tell. “Well enough,” she replied in as neutral a voice as she could manage. It was unfortunate that Doyle wasn’t fooled. 

“Really? See, I’m confused, lass,” he turned in his seat and stared at Buffy. If he couldn’t understand his own circumstances, he’d try for others. Maybe everything would make sense once they got to Angel in LA; Doyle doubted it, but the happy denial bubble helped keep the crippling terror at bay. Still, it was a little hard to be confused and scared of his circumstances when the last thing he remembered was punching Angel and kissing Cordelia. 

“Last I heard you and Angel had that forever kind of love; I know he loved only you, you seemed to feel the same, and okay, there was a rather pesky curse that stood in the way of any real intimacy, but that could almost be overlooked when dealing with that whole true love thing, yes? Okay, yes again, I’ll admit, there was that unfortunate mix-up with the whole human thing, but, really, I’m sure you two could have worked things out. What’s life if not change?” 

The car jerked wildly at Doyle’s words and he thought his brief resurrected life flashed before his eyes. “Jesus, lass, careful! I’d like to live a little longer than a few hours if ye don’t mind.” Slowly releasing his white-knuckled grip on the door handle, Doyle looked to Buffy. 

She looked like he felt, though he was sure it wasn’t for the same reasons; pale, shocked, and in emotional pain. He was sure she hadn’t looked like that before, or, well, not to this new degree, so what happened? “Lass, Buffy? Are you okay?” Maybe he should have driven, despite his recent return. 

“Human?” It was no more than a squeak and the car jerked slightly to the right again. Doyle grabbed the door handle and prayed for the car to stay on the road. Yeah, he should’ve driven. 

Oops. Damn his Irish soul, she didn’t know! Two years and not only had Angel managed to keep it a secret, and well, that was to be expected, bearing the brunt of the guilt and memories all along, that was Mr. Broody for you, but Cordelia had kept it a secret as well? Will wonders never cease. Imagine that. 

“Ah, lass, it wasn’t what I meant, I mean, well. Fuck me and my big mouth, have you a drink?” Doyle normally didn’t curse in front of ladies, but he’d had a rough day. It was bound to affect him somehow. 

Pulling off immediately even if she had no idea where they really were, Buffy drove several miles in silence until they found an opened bar. Neither questioned the fact that it was opened at not even to six in the morning, or that the area was deserted as far as anyone could see. Two cars sat in the parking lot, and the flashing neon sign beckoned them.  

“Lost Souls” the sign read, and both slayer and seer felt that was more than accurate. It raised several more questions, such as the irony of the one opened bar in the middle of nowhere being called something both felt, in their lives and especially now, but they chose not to comment on it.  

Still not speaking to one another, the odd-looking couple marched into the establishment, took a corner booth, and waited for the harried looking waitress. Considering the place was almost empty, Buffy couldn’t imagine what had her so harried looking. Then again, maybe she didn’t want to imagine; with a name like Lost Souls, maybe the waitress was just one of the many out there. 

“What’ll it be?” She asked and popped her gum impatiently. Her tag said her name was Beth, but Buffy couldn’t be sure. The tag was upside down and the tattoo on her arm read Spike and Fanny. For a numbing heartbeat, Buffy thought the woman tattooed Spike’s name – the one she, Buffy, knew – on her arm. Then realized that chances were pretty good there was more than one Spike. Spike Lee, Spike Brown…Spike the dog. 

Buffy chuckled at that but didn’t comment. If she truly was a lost soul, then the identity didn’t matter, did it? 

“Whisky, the bottle,” Doyle said and there was a definite note of desperation in his voice. “And two glasses clean, preferably.” He ignored the look the woman gave him and she just shrugged.

“Oh, do you have any onion rings?” Buffy asked. 

Nodding, she went to fetch their orders. 

They waited barely a minute before ‘Beth’ returned with their drinks, promising their onion rings would be out shortly. And then mumbled something about waking the cook, but they ignored her. It was early; everyone had problems. Doyle poured them each a glass, knocking back his with a hiss and a smile-like grimace, and pouring another before Buffy had the chance to do more than sip at her own drink. 

“Tell me,” she said and her voice was shaky. Gulping the burning liquid – was this alcohol or turpentine? – Buffy motioned for Doyle to pour another for her, took a sip of her refilled glass, and tried again. “Tell me what you meant about human and Angel in the same sentence.” 

I don’t want to, was what he almost said, because I’m suddenly afraid for my life. However, he didn’t, simply took another swallow of his drink and told her everything Angel told him just the other day – two years ago? – about a day he’d been human and mysteriously – and stupidly in Doyle’s considered opinion, the Irishman had done more than one stupid thing in his life – given back. 

The story wasn’t that long, Doyle didn’t know too many details, but he could guess. So, okay, he embellished. He really wasn’t sure they’d spent the day in bed, but he figured they did. It made the most sense. And he wasn’t entirely sure they’d planned parts of their future, but hey, it blended with the story. Of course, he stopped when the first tear finally slid down Buffy’s cheek, but it was too late by then.  

He had to tell her the ending. 

“What do you mean he gave it back?” Buffy demanded as their onion rings were finally served. She finished her third glass, suddenly sure she wasn’t going to regret drinking this much this early in the morning on an empty stomach and asked, her voice rising, “How the hell do you give a day back, damn it? How do you take a day together and then make it not happen?” 

Quickly glancing around, he noted that whatever patrons dotted the dim interior all had their own problems and didn’t care for theirs. Lost souls indeed. That or they thought Buffy was already drunk. Either way worked. 

“Buffy, dear, I don’t know. Angel didn’t say how he did it, only that he begged the Oracles to do it; he kept repeating that he couldn’t let you die, couldn’t be the cause of your death, and that if by giving up his happiness with you he ensured that, he was willing to sacrifice.” He poured them both another drink and signaled for another bottle. This one may have only been halfway empty, but he wanted to make sure they had more incase he was too drunk to ask later.
~~~~~~~~~~
Time really was meaningless. 

Or at least it felt that way. Doyle opened a bleary eye and tried to focus on the woman in front of him. Her head was cushioned on her folded arms, one hand gripping the shot glass tightly as if afraid to spill the few drops that remained. She’d passed out only minutes before, and Doyle was now faced with the remnants of their second bottle of whisky and a dead-weight slayer. 

His day was looking up. Really. 

Forgoing the niceties of refilling his glass – and not entirely sure he could – Doyle carefully took the bottle in hand and slowly brought it to his lips. It was barely seven in the morning; this was early, even for him. Swallowing the contents of the bottle, and hoping that the opening was clean enough for that, Doyle tried to piece together the conversation he’d had with Buffy. 

Putting together a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle was hard enough, doing so when one’s brain was swimming in a sea of numbing alcohol was a little too much. Still, he was determined to figure out what went wrong before he passed out. 

But damn it, something was poking him. Opening eyes he didn’t remember closing, he looked into a pair of unfamiliar brown ones.  

“Oh, you are still alive,” a voice said in a banshee-like screech that made him cringe – and then wish he hadn’t moved at all. “Your girl is in the bathroom, just so you know.” 

With that, the banshee left and Doyle closed his eyes again. What had she been talking about? He didn’t remember going out with Cordelia last night. A figure stumbled into the booth across from him, leaning her head against the worn cushion of the booth and Doyle opened an eye again. Blonde, this girl was blonde and definitely not Cordelia. His Delia had beautiful long brown locks that he wanted to run his fingers through as he cradled her head and kissed her. This woman had short blonde hair and looked…wait a minute. She looked like Angel’s girl.  

Now he really was confused. 

In a flash of blinding pain that came complete with surround sound, entirely-too vivid colors, and smells he’d rather not have to deal with at the moment, Doyle remembered. Death, life, Buffy (and her death and life), his own confusion at being dead for apparently two years and subsequent rebirth in her living room. Oh, and the fact that they just spent the past who knew how long drinking themselves under the table as she told him why, exactly, it didn’t work between her and Angel. And her tears. Apparently, no matter how much she said it didn’t work, she really didn’t believe it. 

Oh, no, now he wasn’t, confused that was. Thanks so much for that, he thought bitterly as he rode through the pain of remembrance. This was worse than a vision.  

“Want me to drive, lass?” His words felt as if they were coming from someone else, and Doyle really would have thought that if not for the pain in his throat as he uttered them. “We should be going, and even if I don’t think the sun has set, it’s still a drive.” 

She mumbled something, but dutifully dug the keys from her pocket, slapping them on the table as if they weighed too much for her. They both winced at the echoing noise that accompanied that move. Doyle took the keys, reached into his own pocket for money to pay for their entirely too early drinking binge and realized he had none.  

“Money?” He whispered and looked at Buffy. She began to nod but stopped and reached into another pocket, pulling out several crumpled bills. Throwing them on the table, Buffy slid back out of the booth and stood, eyes still closed and grasped Doyle’s arm as she tried to stand. 

“You really think he loves me?” Her voice was small and scared. As if, Doyle thought, the walls she obviously built around herself were crumbling and real emotion was leaking out. At least he could solve someone else’s pain. 

“Lass,” Doyle said confidently through the headache, “I know he does. Trust me, despite a few decades of maiming and torturing that man broods over you and only you.” 

“When you saw him last time; I mean, it was two years ago, things change.” 

Ah yes, The Meeting, Doyle thought and wondered why he thought that in capital letters. The one where she and Angel had met, for less than a day, after her return from heaven. Doyle had no idea why Angel was so distant, why he left Buffy when she obviously needed him, hell months later Doyle, a virtual stranger, knew that she still needed him. There was something tickling the back of his still alcohol-hazed mind, but Doyle couldn’t figure out what it could possibly be. 

“Trust me, lass, he loves you. If he didn’t you’d know, don’t you think?” At her look of confusion as he helped her into the SUV, both of them squinting at the sun, Doyle elaborated, wishing he had a pair of extra dark sunglasses. “If he didn’t love you anymore, don’t you think he’d have said something? Angel’s many things, he’s obstinate, he’s foolish, definitely a fool for love, and he’s a martyr, but he’s not a liar. He’d never continue to lead you on if he no longer felt the same way.” 

Buffy nodded, eyes closed once more, head resting against the headrest as Doyle pulled out of the parking lot and onto the freeway once more. She could have sworn that they’d spent hours in that dingy bar, but it was barely an hour after she pulled off the road. Her sense of time wasn’t that off, was it? So why, then, did it seem as if she was in a time warp of some sort? 

“I wish I could believe that, Doyle, but if I do then that means he hasn’t loved me since I was in high school. Because if he really did, and you’re right, then don’t you think he’d have said something?” 

What was he, a therapist? This was going to take the rest of their nearly two-hour drive. Possibly the rest of his newly rebirthed life, if Buffy’s level of depression was any indication. Then again, it was rush hour now, thank you Mr. Whisky, and rush hour in LA was notoriously…slow.  

Plenty of time to figure out what she meant by that.
~~~~~~~~~~
“I’m still in shock,” Buffy admitted as they sat across the street from the Hyperion Hotel, neither ready to get out of the relative safety of the car and meet their respective pasts. 

Doyle smiled and finished the last of his water, glad Buffy had talked him into stopping halfway here for non-alcoholic refreshments and aspirin. And gum. He watched as she dug through the center consol for lip-gloss and a brush, hiding the knowing smile as she subconsciously made herself look presentable for Angel.  

“About what, lass?”

They’d talked about a lot in the hours it took them to make their way from Sunnydale south to LA. His life, hers, loves, losses, Spike (never did Doyle want those images in his mind, thank you very much) Dawn, mystical happenings out the wazoo, it was brought up, discussed, dissected, and, hopefully, brought some healing to them both. Neither had the best of lives, though their demons were somewhat different. It helped just talking with someone who wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t impose their thoughts and opinions on the other. Doyle hadn’t felt this…free in, well, ever. 

“Cordelia. You being in love with her. I mean, yeah, she had some decent qualities, ah, she…well, she…” Buffy trailed off, trying desperately to remember details about her high school rival/friend. “Direct, she was direct. Said what was on her mind and didn’t care what other’s thought about it.” 

Doyle laughed, running a hand through his own hair. “I know, Buffy, she’s a little hard to take sometimes, but she’s got a good heart, she just doesn’t always want to show it. I think she was hurt before.” 

“Xander,” Buffy nodded, “Her boyfriend in high school. He cheated on her after Cordelia gave up everything she ever knew for him. Then I think there was something about her father and jail. Tax evasion or something, I can’t remember, there were one or two other things on my mind at the time. Still, for the girl who had literally everything, that had to be hard on her.” 

Doyle nodded as if he thought this all along and now she was just confirming his previous assumptions, and then paused. “The guy whose clothes I’m wearing?” 

Buffy snorted. “Yeah,” and a giggle escaped her. Turning serious, she admitted, “I hope she feels the same way about you, Doyle, you’re a great guy.” 

Smiling at the compliment, the former seer took whatever courage (sober courage as it was) he had and opened his door, walking to the other side and doing the same for Buffy. He didn’t object when the slayer slipped her small fingers into his hand, but squeezed them in support. In the hours they were stuck in the car, she had revealed a lot to him and Doyle realized that despite the façade she put on, even for him, despite whatever her friends may or may not think, Buffy Summers was still a scared young woman with too much responsibility and not enough support. 

Her friends might think they supported her, but Doyle had a sneaking suspicion that it was limited, that they didn’t truly understand what she went through on a nightly basis. Until they did, real true support couldn’t be forthcoming. Angel understood; Doyle was willing to stay sober for a month on that assumption alone.  

To rip her out of heaven without researching where she was? Irresponsible at best. To expect her to take on the responsibilities and duties of the living when she was still adjusting to being alive once more? Cruel and unjust, to be sure, but there was something else there. Did they honestly expect her to be unscathed no matter where she’d been? 

Being taken from heaven and sent to her version of hell on earth was one thing, but if she were truly in hell as they thought, wouldn’t they have understood the implications of that? If they thought about hell, then they’d have realized that it wasn’t all sunshine and roses (think heaven here and the pain of being ripped from that peace) but torture, pain, death. Doyle shook his head. He didn’t understand any of that. It made no sense to him whatsoever how her friends, those supposedly closest to her, could do that. 

Crossing the street, still hand in hand, Doyle pushed those thoughts away, and admired the new home for Angel Investigations. He wondered, as they stared at the imposing structure – did Angel do anything small? – what else he’d have learned from the woman beside him had they had more time. And what else he’d have confessed to her. He wasn’t too surprised to find that he’d opened up more with Buffy in the few hours they’d been together – drunk or not – than he had to either Angel or Cordelia in the months they were.  

Then again, there was something about shared pain that made one talk. Angel wasn’t one to share, except with the story of the day he’d given back. And Cordelia was only beginning to accept him as an equal never mind the demon part, so they’d never really had a heart to heart. 

What would have happened, Doyle wondered as they paused at the doors to the hotel, had he lived? Would Angel have eventually opened up to him? Would their friendship have grown and solidified as Doyle hoped it would? And what of Cordelia? 

So many questions, so few answers. 

Buffy squeezed his hand once more. “Those who will be coming back are now here,” she whispered and together they opened the doors, striding through the lobby to the reception desk.  

Swallowing once, Doyle called out, “Hello?” 

A quick staccato of heels tapped against the floor and a voice answered, “Yes, can we hel…?” And then the body was in sight and the woman who answered looked up and stopped dead, the file she’d been holding fluttering to the floor in a scattering of papers. 

Cordelia Chase stared at the sight before her, swayed once, sure she was having either the most bizarre vision ever – and minus the pain – or that she’d suddenly been sent to some hellish world where the past came back to haunt her. Either way, she didn’t want to deal. Too many things came rushing back at the sight before her and she didn’t even notice the woman at his side. 

“Doyle…?” It was no more than a whisper before the woman Doyle loved fainted. In a burst of speed, he leapt over the counter and caught Cordelia before she hit the ground. 

Lifting her in his arms, Doyle’s eyes locked with Buffy’s and he grinned. “I guess she remembered me.” 

Nodding Buffy felt her own eyes drift towards the stairs, wondering if the feeling she always got telling her Angel was near was still accurate. She could feel him, a tingling across her skin that was different from other vampires, so much more.

“It’s the way to make an entrance alright, Doyle.”

Wait...What?

To Coin A Sunnydale Phrase: Duh! Index        Christine's Page        Home