Getting It Right

Angel concentrated on the immediate need as he used claws to gently rip the tattered clothes from Doyle’s unconscious form. He eased the material away, taking care around the hands with cracked and burned fingers. He fought back the anger and grief that swelled as the scene replayed in his head: the glowing crystal, Doyle’s anguished screams, the beacon crashing to the floor with Doyle’s body flopping bonelessly away from it. He felt his face shift into ridges and golden eyes, but continued to exercise care in removing the remainder of Doyle’s shirt and trousers so that he could assess all of the damage before beginning to bind up the wounds. He forced himself not to linger over the bruised legs and torso, which he couldn’t do much of anything about, and drew the blankets up to keep Doyle warm while he turned his attention to the burns.

The machine had activated for only the briefest moment, and Doyle’s hands bore the brunt of the damage, but his face also evidenced what appeared to be acid burns, with the skin covered in suppurating pustules that oozed bloody pus. Angel turned away for a moment, hating that his first view of Doyle spread out in his bed would always be this battered for...evidence that he could not protect the one person most important to his new life in Los Angeles.

Forcing away despair, Angel laid one hand on Doyle’s chest to feel the slow rise and fall that came with each breath while at the same time he focused on the steady heartbeat, reminding himself that he had not lost his seer. With the other hand he reached down for the first aid kit that he had gathered immediately after settling Doyle in his bed. Angel worked quickly to apply the anesthetizing burn cream and loosely wrapped bandages, wanting to be finished with the doctoring before Doyle regained consciousness and had to suffer the pain of having his wounds touched.

As with every other intention that night, this one went awry as well. As Angel began to carefully apply ointment to each of the sores on Doyle’s face, he heard heart rate and breathing quicken.

Doyle’s eyes flashed open in stark terror as he attempted to rear up off the bed. Only Angel’s quick hand placed against the bare chest kept him in place.

"Doyle. Doyle! It’s alright. You’re safe."

Pain immediately joined the terror in Doyle’s eyes as he gasped out a breath that ended in a moan.

"Fuck," he pleaded shakily, "Oh fuck, Angel, tell me we stopped it."

"Yeah. You stopped it. Now lay back and breathe."

Doyle closed his eyes and stilled but for fine tremors and took several slow deep breaths.

"How are you feeling?" Angel reached forward to continue applying the burn cream, but hesitated to touch without Doyle’s permission now that he had regained consciousness.

"’M alive," Doyle mumbled. "Hurts everywhere." He tried to take stock of what his body was telling him besides 'ow’.

"The machine," Angel swallowed, "burned you when it activated. Then you fell when it crashed, so you’ve probably got bruises from that. I don’t think anything’s broken." He knew he sounded distant and clinical, but it was that or rage at Doyle for allowing himself to be hurt. At least Doyle hadn’t succeeded in getting himself killed, which had clearly been the expectation judging from their exchange directly before the upper-cut that had sent Angel crashing to the floor of the ship’s hold.

Doyle took in the information and tried to reconstruct the memories. Burning crystal. Check. Punching Angel. Check. Saying "I love you" and kissing Angel. Damn.

"Can I...?" Angel fumbled with the tube of burn ointment, unsettled by Doyle’s continued silence. "I need to put this on the burns on your face."

Choosing not to open his eyes and see the look of indifference, or worse, pity, on Angel’s face, Doyle offered a quiet "Go ahead." He flinched and forced himself not to move away from the fingers and cool cream that still hurt like hell against his wounds.

"Sorry."

"Just be quick, 'k?"

"Yeah."

After long moments of pain, Doyle felt Angel move away, and he breathed slowly through the dull pain that still throbbed throughout his body.

"Here. Take these."

Doyle opened his eyes and reached out to accept the pills and glass of water, wincing helplessly when he saw the bandages that enveloped his hands. Without comment, Angel lifted the pills and dropped them on Doyle’s tongue as the lips parted. He held the glass for Doyle to sip at the water and swallow the pills.

"Don’t suppose I could talk you into trading this for that bottle of whiskey I left here last week?" He couldn’t quite meet Angel’s gaze, and he heard his comment fall closer to desperation than to the humor he told himself he was aiming for.

"Just lie still and give the pills time to work." Angel set the glass of water down on the bedside table as he stood. He began packing the supplies back into the first aid kit to give his hands something to do other than touch Doyle to offer comfort and to reassure himself that Doyle was really still alive.

"Gimme a few minutes an’ I’ll get outa your hair."

"A few...?" Angel turned to stare at the withdrawn form, disbelief quickly giving way to frustration. "You nearly died tonight. You’re not going anywhere."

"Don’t need to you to play nursemaid," Doyle snapped back, opening his eyes to glare at Angel.

"I’ll tie you down if I have to. Now shut up and try to get some sleep."

In response to Angel’s growl and flashing golden eyes, Doyle struggled to sit up, determined to get away, not exactly clear on why he needed so desperately to leave. In one quick stride, Angel reached the bed and pressed Doyle back down with a gentleness belied by the fully vamped out features and low growl.

"You are not leaving. You will lie there quietly and sleep, and when you wake up, we’ll have a conversation about what happened tonight, boyo."

Knowing he was no match for Angel on his best day, let alone in his current condition, Doyle acquiesced but offered no acknowledgement of Angel’s promise of the conversation he had no desire to participate in. Instead he closed his eyes and carefully turned his head away, ignoring the pain of the pillow case sliding against his raw skin.

Angel let his hand linger for a moment longer, and then stepped away to pick up the first aid kit and turn off the light before leaving the room.

**********************

The next day passed slowly as Angel periodically tended to Doyle’s wounds, and Doyle continued to maintain a distant silence. As evening passed into night, Angel’s irritation deepened. Doyle refused to give any but the most rudimentary answers to questions, and that hurt.

"Aaarrrgh..."

Offering up to the Powers every curse he could conjure, Angel tossed the pan of barely cooked eggs into the sink and dashed for the bedroom. He found Doyle curled up on the bed with his bandaged hands pressed to his skull as he whimpered through the last of the vision. Without no thought beyond protecting or at least comforting his friend, Angel knelt on the bed and gathered Doyle close, raging at the Powers for sending a vision while Doyle was still suffering the outcome of their last mission.

"It’s alright. You’re alright." He tugged Doyle’s hands down to prevent further harm to them or to Doyle’s face.

"There’s a guy, black leather," Doyle choked out. "Demon’s got him. Big one. Yellow green. Apartment building at 3rd and Catalina. Second floor. God, he..."

"It’s okay. I’ll take care of it." Angel rearranged the covers that Doyle had kicked off. He shook a couple of Tylenol from the bottle, and he was gratified to have Doyle accept them easily along with a sip of water. As Doyle lay back on the pillow, Angel ran his hand over the sweat-damp hair, hating the helplessness of once again not being able to prevent Doyle’s pain.

As much as Doyle wanted to relax under that soothing touch, his stomach still clenched at the horror of his vision. "Angel," he whispered urgently.

"Going. You just, um, rest. I’ll be back as soon as I can." He thought of a few more curses to throw at the Powers for forcing him away from Doyle.

**********************

"Stay here." Angel didn’t even pretend to stifle the growl as he shoved Wesley into one of the office visitor’s chairs. If he had known whom the Powers had sent him out to save, he might have just told them to fuck off. Wesley tried his patience at the best of times, not that there had been many of those in Sunnydale.

Without looking back to make sure that Wesley obeyed, he took the stairs two at a time and hurried to the bedroom to check on Doyle. To his mingled relief and disappointment, Doyle appeared to be fast asleep. He quietly approached the bed and surveyed the wan features, frowning as he realized that the sores on Doyle’s face appeared worse than they had that morning.

Telling himself that he needed to reassure Doyle that the vision had been taken care of, Angel settled on the bed and stroked his fingers through the dark curls at the back of Doyle’s neck. He swallowed thickly as he clearly saw the increased severity of the wounds up close. He refused to believe that he was still in danger of losing Doyle to the Scourge’s crusade.

He cleared his throat, and spoke past the fear. "Doyle. Doyle." He continued to softly stroke his fingers against the back of Doyle’s neck, and he was glad he had continued when Doyle woke with a start.

"Hey, it’s okay. Vision taken care of with no casualties."

"Good," Doyle sighed, closing his eyes once more. As long as he didn’t look at Angel, he could continue to pretend that everything wasn’t on the brink of falling apart. During his withdrawn silences that day, Doyle had played and replayed every scenario wherein he had that threatened conversation with Angel about the kiss, the punch, the laughable attempt at redemption via heroic death. None of the scenarios ended well, and the Powers had guaranteed that he couldn’t walk away as long as they kept shoving the visions into his brain. He had felt foolish more times than he could count in his life, but he had never hated himself for any of those missteps and blunders as much as he did now for grabbing and kissing Angel. It was all well and good to do something incredibly stupid when he knew he wouldn’t have to face the consequences, but this hadn’t ended up being one of those times, and there was no way he could pass that kiss off as anything other than what it was: a clear expression of all the passion and want and love that he had denied even to himself for so long. The gentle fingers at his neck weren’t helping with his self-loathing and confusion. It simply spoke to him of what he so desperately wanted and felt certain he never had a chance at getting.

"Doyle?"

"Not feeling so good. I just wanna sleep, ok?"

"Yeah, ok, in a minute. I just...could you look at me for a minute?"

Doyle braced himself and opened his eyes, taking care to keep his face as expressionless as possible. He knew he was fighting a losing battle as he faced the clear concern in Angel’s gaze.

"I think...well, how are you feeling?"

Doyle frowned. "Like I’ve been run over by a truck then been set on fire. Or maybe the other way around."

"Better than yesterday or worse?"

"Angel?" The question asked in such a serious tone ratcheted up his anxiety.

"Just please answer the question."

"’M not sure." Doyle closed his eyes to concentrate. "I dunno. Felt like hell yesterday. Feel like hell today." He gave an awkward shrug and opened his eyes to offer a weak smile.

"It looks like your burns are getting worse."

"You think that crystal did something to me?"

Angel blinked. He hadn’t thought he was being so obvious in his concerns and conclusions. "I don’t know."

"Guess I might be getting that hero’s death after all."

Angel stared, not caring that his astonishment and horror showed clearly. But almost at once anger took over. "It’s that easy for you? What makes you think you just get to decide you’re going to die? Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing wrong all along. Should have just sacrificed myself to the first demon that came along."

"What? No!" Doyle struggled to sit up and couldn’t stop the pained cry from escaping as he supported his weight with his hands.

"Dammit, lie down." Angel kept from roaring, but only barely. He tucked the blankets that had come loose, keeping the vampire visage at bay with intense concentration. He lowered his voice to a reasonable but no less fervent tone as he continued. "I’m not going to lose you now. We’re going to figure this out, and no one is dying."

"If the Scourge’s poison managed to get to me, don’t think there’s much we can be doing about it."

Angel searched for the words that would shake Doyle from the seemingly casual acceptance of death. A century of avoiding conversation had not exactly strengthened that particular skill, so he resorted to action.

Moving with a swiftness that gave Doyle no time to react, Angel slid his hand back around Doyle’s neck and bent forward to kiss Doyle with all of the desperate want and need his soul felt for his seer. At first Doyle tried to pull away in surprise, but then with a moan, he opened his mouth and returned the kiss hungrily. Angel took care not to disturb any of the wounds, focusing all his attention on keeping the kiss gentle despite his desire to simply hold and take the warm body underneath him.

Finally, Angel pulled back to whisper, "Don’t you dare leave me."

The possessiveness in Angel’s expression had Doyle’s throat clenching. He swallowed and admitted brokenly, "I don’t want to."

"We’ll figure this out. Whatever is causing this, we’ll figure it out, and we’ll fix it."

"Perhaps I can help with that."

Without jarring Doyle, Angel snapped around at the man lingering just outside the door. "I told you not to move."

"I heard shouting." Wesley stuttered nervously, but still managed to hold his own against Angel’s threatening stare.

"Not to break up this great tension you guys have going on here, but who the hell are you?" Doyle frowned as he tried to place where he had seen the man before.

Wesley shifted uncomfortably, causing the leather pants to squeak loudly in the silent room. The sound appeared to stiffen his resolve, and he stood straight. "Wesley Wyndom-Pryce. Rogue demon hunter."

Angel snorted. "He’s the guy who was about to be demon chow an hour ago."

Wesley blushed and looked at the floor, all bravado abruptly gone.

"Why is he here?" Doyle turned to Angel.

"Because I don’t trust him to stay out of trouble, and I wasn’t going to get sent off to rescue him again when the next vision came. He was supposed to stay upstairs out of the way."

"I know we don’t particularly care for one another, but I am trained as a researcher, so my offer to help still stands." Wesley managed to meet their gazes for a moment before he looked at the floor once more. "That is, if you think I can be of any assistance."

"No harm letting the man try," Doyle suggested.

Angel frowned, but since he was getting what he wanted with Doyle agreeing not to simply give up, he decided he could work with Wesley if it meant finding a solution that would help Doyle. He nodded and gestured for Wesley to come in and take a seat while they gave him all the information that they had on the Scourge’s beacon.

**********************

"It’s the solution that makes the most sense," Wesley insisted. "If the beacon was meant to destroy the hybrid demons by eradicating the human aspect, then perhaps enough of the residual radiation remained on Doyle’s demon visage to continue this deterioration at a much slower rate. The wounds on his face match up to the places where his Brachen spikes would be."

"So you’re saying that when I was all demony up next to that beacon thing, I got some of it on me, and now it’s eatin’ through my human skin?"

"Essentially, yes."

"How do we fix it?" Angel loomed Wesley where he sat surrounded by texts in the bedroom chair.

"I...well...this is an entirely new kind of technology, and without the beacon in our possession, all I truly have is some guesswork based on a review of Brachen physiology and Xao’s Compendium of Mystical Philters..."

"Wesley. The cure."

"Angel, man. Give 'im a chance to get to it."

Angel backed off and moved to lean against the doorway, unhappy with every moment that went by without giving him the opportunity to take action.

Wesley quickly outlined the solution that seemed the most promising. A long silence followed as inscrutable looks passed between Angel and Doyle. "If you would allow me, I can do this."

"No," Angel responded immediately. "I’ll do it."

"Did you miss the part where the main ingredient is holy water?" Doyle demanded. "Last I heard that would do worse to you than whatever this radiation stuff is doing to me."

"That’s what gloves are for."

"No."

"You want Wesley to do it?" Angel challenged, knowing that Doyle would be reluctant to let anyone near him while he was wearing his demon face. Sure it was a low blow, and Angel didn’t miss the slight hurt that crossed Wesley’s face as well, but he refused to relinquish the opportunity to help Doyle himself. After all, he had been the one who didn’t protect Doyle in the first place. Now he was going to fix that.

"Fine. Burn your hands off. Not like you need 'em for anything."

Angel accepted that that was the best agreement he would get and turned to issue directions to Wesley. "I’ll get started down here. You mix up the solution and bring it down when you’re done. Everything you need should be in the office."

Wesley left the room at a quick pace with Angel following to prepare the kitchen. Doyle watched them go. Determined not to give in to his frustration at their assumption of his helplessness, he began the slow work of getting himself upright in order to make the trek to the kitchen.

**********************

"I’ll leave you to it, then." Wesley made a hasty retreat from the tension-filled kitchen. Neither Doyle nor Angel had offered any comment as Wesley had brought down the mixture of holy water and herbs that would be used to cleanse any lingering radiation on Doyle’s skin. The setup and review of the process had been done also without comment, and as much as Wesley found himself in the position of wanting to find some way to break down the wall the two men had erected, he remained cognizant of the fact that he had no real understanding of the history between them.

Doyle sat on a kitchen chair in front of the sink, with the back of his neck resting on a towel to make leaning over the sink more comfortable. He kept his eyes closed and listened to the snap of the plastic gloves and the soft tap of Angel’s shoes on the floor as he walked between the table and counter.

"Ready?" Angel stood next to Doyle and stared down at the tense lines of the man’s face, half-wondering if Doyle would try once more to argue against his doing the cleansing.

"Yeah."

"I’m gonna start with your hands. Okay?"

Doyle shrugged as if it was all the same to him where Angel started. Angel gritted his teeth at the brush-off and then got to work. He lifted Doyle’s right hand and unwrapped the bandages before gently lowering the hand into a bowl filled with the holy water and herbs.

As the water enveloped his fingers, Doyle let out an involuntary sigh. The cool water felt marvelous against his wounds.

"That okay?"

"Yeah," Doyle admitted. "Feels nice."

"Good." Angel held Doyle’s wrist with one hand and supported the bowl with the other. He glanced at the clock to time the soaking at five minutes. As the second hand swept from number to number, Angel’s thumb swiped slow strokes against Doyle’s wrist. Neither spoke. Eventually Angel lowered the bowl and set it on the table. He carefully soaked two bandages in the liquid and then used them as the base for wrapping Doyle’s hand once more, watching carefully for any signs that he was causing pain in the process. But Doyle’s eyes remained closed and his breathing relaxed.

Angel quickly dumped the left over solution into an empty pail so that Wesley could safely dispose of the mixture and any of the radiation it contained once the entire process was finished. He cleaned out the bowl and refilled it with one of the bottles of the holy water solution that Wesley had lined up on the counter.

"Ready for the left hand?"

"Yeah."

Angel repeated the cleansing process with Doyle’s left hand, once again resuming the casual drag of thumb over the small area of uninjured skin on Doyle’s wrist. He listened as Doyle’s heartbeat sped a bit and sternly reminded himself not to push, no matter how intoxicating it was to be so close. After the antagonism and distance of the last forty-eight hours, these moments of getting to touch and help Doyle in silence began to heal the pain in his heart.

As Angel moved away to prepare the next bowl, Doyle shifted in the chair. He wanted to open his eyes and see Angel, to watch his strong form move with that assured grace he always seem to possess. In the quiet of the kitchen with Angel’s gentle hands on him, Doyle had trouble holding onto the confusion that had had him pushing Angel away so adamantly.

"Doyle?"

"Yeah?"

"I’m gonna start with your face now. The first time will probably be the worst."

"Yeah, can’t say I’m actually looking forward to this part." He opened his eyes and soaked in the compassion in Angel’s face. "I trust you." He willed the truth of that to show, and swallowed a sudden grin at the surprised pleasure that shone in Angel’s eyes.

"Okay. Let’s do this."

Doyle closed his eyes and settled his neck on the towel. Angel draped another towel around Doyle’s chest and shoulders to prevent any runoff water from soaking his clothes. Then he dipped a sponge into the refreshed bowl and cautiously pressed it against Doyle’s cheek. He sponged the mixture over Doyle’s face and neck, making sure not to miss any of the sores. Sensing the Doyle’s tension, he worked quickly and used as little pressure as possible. Finally he finished and stepped back to clean the bowl and retrieve a new sponge.

Bombarded by contradictory sensations, Doyle concentrated on keeping his breathing even through the pain of the sponge pressing on the damaged skin and tried to focus instead on the coolness of the water. At the same time, he tried to distract himself from the arousal mounting brought on by the knowing touch of Angel’s hands.

"Okay. Ready?"

Doyle’s eyes flickered open, and Angel’s heart clenched at the fear that suddenly appeared there. Since grappling with the beacon on the ship, Doyle hadn’t gone into his demon face, and based on Wesley’s theory that the spikes correlated to the sores, the potential for pain was great.

Angel set the bowl and sponge on the counter and knelt in front of Doyle’s chair. He laid his hands on Doyle’s knees and squeezed. "You can do this."

Doyle nodded shallowly. "Not like it’s gonna kill me, right?"

Angel’s grip tightened momentarily as a vision of Doyle sprawled on the floor of the hold passed before him once more. He pushed that sight away to concentrate on the very much alive man before him. "No, might hurt like Hell, but you’re going to be okay."

"Yeah. Yeah. Okay." Doyle fixed his eyes on Angel, needing to hold onto the concern and support in that gaze and feeling like a kid who wanted his hand held through an injection. He took a deep breath and allowed his Brachen nature to come forward with a gasp of pain.

"Breathe. Just breathe. You’re okay." Angel kept a firm grip on Doyle’s knees, offering the only support he could in the moment.

After a few shaky breaths, Doyle nodded. "Okay. 'M ready."

Angel stood and worked quickly with the sponge and cleansing mixture. His tension eased some as he felt Doyle begin to relax.

"Better?"

"Yeah. Think maybe Wes was right about this."

Angel finished and moved to prepare the next bowl of solution. This time Doyle gave in to the temptation to watch. He felt suddenly ashamed of the way he had behaved. He had been so ready to die, and living through stopping the beacon had been a shock. But he shouldn’t have taken that shock out on Angel, especially not now that he was beginning to let himself believe that Angel might be more inclined to return his affections rather than spurn them.

"I’m sorry," he blurted.

"Huh?" Angel turned around, clearly confused.

"For being an ungrateful git." Doyle stared down at his knees.

"Forgiven," Angel said simply.

"Just like that?"

In response to the skepticism in Doyle’s tone and expression, Angel leaned over and breathed a kiss at holy-water covered lips that he didn’t dare touch, not because he feared the pain, but because he knew his pain would upset Doyle. "Just like that."

Doyle half-whispered, half-moaned Angel’s name, wanting more.

Angel pulled away and enjoyed the scent of Doyle’s arousal rolling over him before he forced himself to refocus.

"Last time."

Doyle blinked lust-fogged eyes as he took in the bowl and sponge in Angel’s hands. Arousal receded to a low simmer as he nodded and concentrated on pulling back the demon. The spikes slid away with much less pain this time. "Okay," he nodded. "’M ready."

Angel began sponging the solution over Doyle’s face. Already he could see that some of the redness around the sores had receded. With a smothered grin, he decided that a little distraction from any lingering pain might be in order. While one hand carefully applied the sponge, he allowed the other to drop to Doyle’s thigh. The sharp intake of breath and spike in arousal encouraged him. His own cock responded with enthusiasm as he moved to smooth his glove-covered hand over Doyle’s growing erection.

"Fuck, Angel." Doyle struggled to keep still, wanting more of that wonderful pressure on his cock.

"Maybe not today, but soon." Angel finished quickly and set his supplies aside. He moved to kneel once more in front of Doyle, ripping off his gloves.

"Angel?" Doyle stared down at the man kneeling before him, wanting but unsure.

"Shhh, let me do this."

"Huh?" The rest of the question went unvoiced as Angel made his intentions clear by undoing Doyle’s jeans and reaching inside to free Doyle’s cock. "Oh God, Angel."

"Yeah," Angel breathed as he leaned forward. All the fear and anger that he had been steeped in for the last two days transmuted to an equally strong surge of love and want. He slid his lips over the head of Doyle’s cock and settled into a slow sure pace as he sucked and stroked. When Doyle’s hips thrust forward, Angel’s hand shot up to hold him still.

"Please, Angel. Please." Doyle needed more. He wanted to kiss and hold and touch, but with the holy water that bathed his hands and face, he knew he couldn’t.

In response, Angel sucked harder. He needed to taste Doyle, and after a few more passes, he felt the cock twitch on his tongue and Doyle was coming in short, hot bursts. Angel groaned in pleasure as he swallowed until he let the soft cock slip from his lips.

Golden eyes stared up at Doyle as he lay back, panting. "Fuck, Angel." He raised his hands and glared at them. "Hate that I can’t touch you." His pleasure-soaked expression became one of frustration bordering on despair as he realized there wasn’t any way for him to reciprocate.

"It’s okay," Angel whispered as he steadied himself with one hand on Doyle’s thigh. With the other he reached down to free his throbbing cock. He held Doyle’s eyes, communicating passion and want as he gave several quick strokes that had him coming over his fingers.

Doyle breathed in the heady scent of their combined sex and he stared at the glistening fluid on Angel’s hand. He licked his lips, and as Angel raised his hand, he flicked out his tongue to catch the taste.

Angel groaned at the sight, licking his own lips in response. He caught Doyle’s gaze. "I love you, too. Didn’t get a chance to say it on the ship. But I do."

Doyle blinked and couldn’t prevent the silly grin that spread across his face.

"Let’s get you cleaned up." Angel returned the smile and stood.

"And back to bed," Doyle quipped.

"And back to bed," Angel agreed with a laugh.

When Wesley came down to clean out the remaining solution in the pail, he took a moment to peek into the bedroom and found Angel peacefully spooned around Doyle with a pillow protecting his face from the corrosive holy water. He smiled and retreated to the kitchen, hopeful that maybe he had finally helped do something right.