FortunesFools

Disclaimer- All characters and situations relating to �Angel� (the series) are the creation and property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Greenwolf Productions, the WB Network, and (apparently) Evil Fox. No ownership by the author is implied. If I did own them, I wouldn�t hurt them like that.

Author�s Note- Much of this fic was written while under the influence of Counting Crows� latest CD, �This Desert Life.� I�m not certain the significance of that, but it seemed important I should tell you. This story also feels like a departure, in a way, from my usual M.O., so any and all feedback is appreciated.

Archive- Sure, but email me and let me know where it�s going.

Feedback- Absolutely.

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Prologue- There Are Other Worlds Than These

Doyle flew through the air. For a moment he thought he hadn't jumped hard enough, and would miss the beacon entirely, but he always underestimated his demon-nature and he connected solidly. He grabbed hold and scrambled up the frame, clinging to it like a cat on a bird-cage. He pulled himself up.

The beacon was starting to power up, and he could feel it, burning like acid over his skin. He took hold of the cable and pulled. The beacon flared; and he could feel the skin start to pull away from his flesh. He didn't want to scream, but he had to, and gave another pull on the cable.

The beam, the light, consuming, "purifying," penetrated deep into his flesh, when the cable suddenly broke, and the force of his own efforts threw him backward. One flailing hand caught a bar of the frame and he hung, suspended for just a moment before losing his grip. He spun helplessly down.

He hit the deck thirty feet below, and felt his breath forced out as several of his ribs were snapped by the impact. And even worse, the pain of his flayed skin. He was still wearing his demon-skin, but the point of every spine was a perfect point of pain; the light had started to shear them off, leaving them raw and exposed. Weakly he reached for his face, trying to assess the damage.

He heard Angel and Cordelia's voices screaming his name, then felt the dull vibration of their running footfalls on the deck. Angel reached him first and skidded to a stop, then he went down on his knees. The vampire reached out, but didn't quite touch the ravaged skin.

"Oh, God," Angel whispered. "Are you..."

"I'll live," Doyle said.

Chapter 1- Union

The women in the smoky darkness around Dolores chanted softly in the language of their distant ancestors, a language nearly extinct.

No, she told herself, it wasn't Dolores anymore, it was Dechtire, the name given her by the High Priestess Danu, after the mother of Cuchulain. And she would be the mother of another hero. She had been chosen.

She felt the soft hands of the other priestesses on her body, especially her stomach, and heard Danu's voice close by her ear. "He is coming," Danu said. "All is prepared, you have been made ready to receive him."

Dolores shivered. How had she come from a middle-class home in Limerick to this ancient temple? Was it mere chance, falling in with certain girls at University, or was it as Danu said, was she fated and destined to bear the cult's saviour? Dolores wished she had the faith the sisters of her tribe did, but just at the moment...

She felt the others around her withdraw, and leave her naked on a pile of furs, the pelts of bears and wolves and harts, creatures beloved of the Goddess. She kept her eyes tightly closed. When the God-consort came upon her, she must not look upon him.

As if summoned by her thoughts, she felt warmth close by her, and steamy breath blown over her breast, her throat. Unable to help herself, she peeked through squinted eyelids.

He crouched over her, large and unmistakably male. His skin was dark, and even by the dim candlelight she could see it was covered with spines, like the anemones washed up in the surf. She gasped and cried out, afraid those spines would pierce her flesh.

The consort looked up, into her eyes, then changed, his flesh becoming smooth. He had taken the form of a man, now. Still he was dark, and his eyes blazed like electric fire, but he was well-formed, even handsome. "Don't be afraid," he said in the ancient language. "I won't hurt you."

"I... hail and p-praise you," Dolores stammered in English, forgetting the words.

He smiled then, re-assuring and kind. "You're quite pretty," he said in English. "Just relax. It's better if you relax."

"I-I pray for the Goddess to bless this union," Dolores said, "and m-make it b-bear fruit."

The consort touched her hair, smoothing it back from her face. "Don't worry about your duty," he said. "It's just a bit of fun, isn't it."

Dolores was confused. This wasn't what she had expected.

The consort stretched out over her, his body hot, his movements sure. He kissed her softly on the mouth. "It's okay," he said. "I'll be gentle."

Chapter 2- Midnight

Angel stepped out of the elevator in his basement apartment, having retrieved a book from his office. It had been a quiet night, for once, and he was hoping to get some rest and be more or less awake when he met with his prospective clients the next morning. As much as he wanted to deny it, it went against his basic nature to be awake during the day, but what could he do. He was working in the waking world.

"Angel," came a voice out of the darkness.

The vampire spun towards it, startled for the split-second before he recognized it. "Doyle!" he said.

Doyle stepped into the light. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to..." The young half-demon's lip and eyebrow were split open, and blood was even now drying on his face and neck, in his hair.

"Jesus," Angel said, "what the hell happened to you now? You promised me..."

"It was an old debt," Doyle said quickly. "I'd almost forgotten..."

"But they didn't," Angel said.

"No," Doyle admitted.

Angel sighed. "Sit down," he said. "Take off your shirt. I'll get the first aid kit."

Chapter 3- Exile

The baby was screaming in the Elder-wood cradle. Dolores rocked him, probably a little more briskly than was strictly soothing, and tucked the soft furs under his chin. "Please, baby," she said, "don't cry. Mama is here."

"Why don't you pick him up," Danu said behind her, her voice cool and brittle.

Dolores ignored her.

"Are you afraid he'll manifest his father's power and harm you," Danu said mockingly.

"Of course not," Dolores snapped.

"Nor should you be," Danu said. "It's been three weeks. If he were going to manifest anything, he'd have done so by now."

"How do you know?" Dolores said. "You know as much about how this works as I do. It's not like any of you have any experience at this sort of thing."

"He's not even very big," Danu said petulantly. "The sisterhood can't devote its resources to raising a child that may, at some future time, possibly show powers. He has to go, Dechtire."

"Go where?"

"I personally think he should be sacrificed to the Goddess," Danu said, causing Dolores to rise and stand between the High Priestess and the squalling child. "But I seem to be alone in that opinion," Danu went on. "The sisterhood as a whole seems to be more impressed with the fact that he's 'a sweet, wee thing' than that he is supposed to lead our people into a new golden age."

At that Dolores did gather the child into her arms, turning him protectively away from Danu. This woman is mad, she thought. Does she honestly believe the father of this baby is some all-powerful god? Not natural, certainly, but hardly the Father of Ireland.

She looked down at the baby, which had stopped crying at last. He blinked his eyes, still wet from tears. Dolores felt a sudden pang of guilt that she hadn't yet given the boy a name; not a real name, anyway.

"I think it would be best for all concerned, then," Danu said, "if you were to just take him and leave."

Dolores looked back at her. "But where will I go?" she said. "I left my family to devote myself to the Goddess."

But Danu had turned her back, leaving Dolores alone with her son.

Chapter 4- Flaw

Doyle winced as Angel swabbed his face with a clump of cotton balls soaked in alcohol. "This doesn't look too bad," he said, "actually."

"Head wounds bleed a lot," Doyle said. "I'm surprised you didn't know that."

"I knew it," Angel said, "that doesn't mean they can't also be serious."

"Well, anyway, thanks for patching me up, man."

"You've done the same for me," Angel said, applying bandages to Doyle's face.

"Listen, you don't have any whiskey around, do you?" Doyle asked.

Angel stood up and took a bottle and two glasses out of the cabinet and placed them on the table. "Go wash up first," he said.

"Yes, Dad," Doyle smirked.

Angel heard the Irishman enter the tiny bathroom and start the water in the sink before opening the bottle. He poured some into each glass.

A few minutes later Doyle joined him, his face and neck scrubbed clean and his dark hair hanging damply across his forehead. He scooped up the glass before even sitting back down. "Cheers," he said, and bolted it back.

Angel sipped his own whiskey gingerly as Doyle sat down and poured himself another. "One more thing," Doyle said. "I need to lie low for a few days..."

"It's fine," Angel said resignedly. "You can have the couch. However long you need."

"That's real good of you," Doyle said. "I owe you one."

Angel drained his own glass. "Forget it," he said.

Chapter 5- Family

Old Mrs. Doyle opened the front door of her house and looked out. "Jesus, Mary, and Holy Saint Joseph," she said, "look what the wind blew in."

Dolores lowered her eyes and pulled her child closer in to her chest. Her mother could still make her feel five years old.

"Oh, Jesus, Dolores," she went on, "don't tell me that's a baby."

Dolores nodded, tears burning in her eyes. Her mother stepped back, holding the door open for her prodigal daughter. "Well, come in," she said, "before you both catch pneumonia."

Dolores climbed the stoop, hot tears spilling over her cheeks now. "I'm so sorry," she whispered as she passed her mother.

"A bit late for that, don't you think," Mrs. Doyle said. "Go sit down in the parlour. I'll fetch some tea."

"Thank you," Dolores said, her voice choked with sobs.

A few minutes later her mother entered the parlour with a tray. She set it down and sat opposite her daughter. "Look at you," she said, not unkindly, "you look like a red Indian in all those furs."

"It's all I had," Dolores said.

"Still, no way to dress a baby," her mother replied. "What is it, anyway?"

Dolores looked up, her eyes flat with horror. "What..?"

"A boy or a girl, Dolores."

"Oh, a boy. A little boy."

Mrs. Doyle held out her arms. "Let's see him then," she said.

Dolores undid the swaddling furs wrapped around the child and handed him to her mother. The older woman's stony expression cracked just a little, and the shadow of a smile played across her lips. "Quite the little savage, aren't you," she said softly. She looked up at her daughter again. "I suppose it's too much to expect there's a father in the picture."

Dolores gave a short, mad laugh.

"I didn't think so," her mother said. She stroked the infant's forehead, smoothing the silky strands of black hair that covered his scalp. "Such pretty eyes," she said, "I imagine he takes after his father, there. Pretty eyes telling pretty lies."

Dolores burst into a torrent of tears, and buried her face in her hands.

Mrs. Doyle waited until the storm had passed, then raised an eyebrow at her girl. "Alright, then," she said. "Let's have it."

Dolores told her everything. All about the sisterhood, the Goddess and the God-consort, her own offering and sacrifice to free Ireland, and Danu turning them out. Her mother sat in silence until she had finished.

"It's all true, I swear it," Dolores said.

Mrs. Doyle nodded. "I believe you," she said. "But the boy must not ever know. Do you understand, Dolores. He doesn't ever have to know he's not human."

"I know," Dolores sniffled.

Her mother looked at the baby again. "Poor little thing," she said. "Has he a name?"

Dolores shook her head. "No," she said. "The priestesses gave him one, but I can't even pronounce it."

Mrs. Doyle smirked at that. "Well, we'd best pick one, then," she said.

"Frank," Dolores said quickly, "after Father."

"That would be Allen Francis," her mother said, tickling the child under his chin. "Do you like that, now. Allen Francis Doyle."

The baby laughed and waved his arms.

"Well, that's alright then," his grandmother said. "Now come upstairs, Dolores, and put on some normal clothes. I'll see if I can find some nappies for little Francis."

Chapter 6- Community

Angel awoke to the sound of raised voices above him, a not uncommon occurrence these days. He sighed heavily, rose and threw on some clothes, then climbed into his elevator.

The battle was still raging as he entered the office.

�I can�t believe you gave him my address,� Cordelia shrieked. �We were together, what? Two weeks?�

�I didn�t give him any address, Miss-high-and-mighty,� Doyle snapped. �He must have followed me there.�

�Oh, hooray,� Cordelia said. �How many more demonic loan-sharks should I expect? Maybe I should throw a get-acquainted dinner.�

Angel surveyed his employees with dismay. Cordelia and Doyle were facing each other across the desk, Cordelia�s palms on it, lunging across, aggressive, Doyle�s arms crossed, defensive. Wesley stood in the doorway, managing to look both angry and embarrassed at the same time.

�Well, I didn�t think to make a public announcement to the general population about where I spent my time these days,� Doyle said, his soft brogue edged with sarcasm. �Maybe I should have placed an announcement in the Demonic Times Society Pages, right next to the wedding photos. That way, everyone who�s out to beat the crap out of me can send over their calling cards.�

Wesley stepped out of the doorway. �Don�t blame this on Cordelia,� he said. �She didn�t run up gambling debts.�

�Please,� Angel said.

All three turned towards him. �I�m sorry,� Wesley said, �I didn�t hear you come up.�

Cordelia strode towards him. �You have to do something,� she said, pointing back at Doyle. �I can�t live like this.�

Doyle rolled his eyes.

�Cordelia�s right,� Wesley put in. �Something has to be done. I understand the employees� lives are private, but when they impose on the workplace��

�Easy for you to say,� Doyle said, �seeing as how you don�t even have a life.�

�Now see here�� Wesley said hotly.

�I�m not going to be ganged up on�� Doyle shot back.

�If you crawled out of the bottle once in awhile�� Cordelia said.

�You stuck-up��

�It�s not fair of you��

�Enough,� Angel bellowed, and the three fell silent.

�Go to your separate corners,� Angel said, his voice low. �Doyle: downstairs. Wesley: my office. Cordelia��

She sat primly at her desk, her eyes wide. Wesley retreated to the inner office, and Doyle pushed past Angel into the elevator. �You can�t�� he began under his breath, but Angel gave him a fierce glance. The half-demon slammed the door and the elevator descended.

Angel stepped over to Cordelia�s desk. �I�m sorry,� he said.

�Why are you apologizing,� she asked. �You seem to be the only one here without testosterone poisoning.�

�I make allowances for him. I know that,� Angel admitted. �I�m trying to protect him. Maybe I�m going about it the wrong way.�

�He�s a grown man, Angel,� Cordelia said gently.

�I know,� Angel said. �It�s complicated. I�m sorry I let it go this far. I�ll talk to him.�

�I understand you need his visions�� Cordelia said.

�It�s more than that,� Angel said. �I can�t explain it, Cordelia. Trust me, though, it�s better for you that he�s here.�

Chapter 7- Heritage

�He�s really quite a remarkable child,� said the Headmaster. �Bright and studious. Ambitious. And yet compassionate and thoughtful.�

Dolores glanced back at her son, Frankie, quietly reading in the reception room outside the Headmaster�s office.

The Headmaster paged through the boy�s file. �Only eight years old, and already doing school work on the level of a student of fifteen or more.�

Dolores tried to ignore the uneasy twisting of her stomach. Frankie was a smart boy, and nothing more, she told herself. There were hundreds of perfectly human boys and girls who excelled at their schoolwork.

�I�d like to advance him two grades,� the Headmaster went on. �I could easily promote him even higher, I�m sure he would excel, but I think two grades for now and then re-evaluate in a year or two.�

Dolores turned to face the Headmaster. �If you�re sure,� she said.

�I think it would be beneficial for him,� the Headmaster said. �He�s no doubt bored with his schoolwork now.�

Dolores nodded. �Whatever you think is best, then.�

She and the Headmaster shook hands, and Dolores collected her son. They walked together to the bus stop. �So, Frankie,� she said. �You�ll be moving up in the world.�

The boy shrugged.

�How does it feel to be so smart,� Dolores went on. �I never did all that well in school. I�m very proud of you.�

They sat together on the bench at the bus stop. �Mam,� the child said at length. �What was my father like?�

Dolores looked down into her son�s eyes, marveling, as she always did. These were old eyes, she couldn�t help thinking. The eyes of a wise and ancient being. �Why do you ask, Francis?�

The boy turned and stared off into the distance at the end of the street. �Am I like him?� he said. �Was he smart, like me? Did he have black hair? Did he like football?�

Dolores hugged her son tightly, ignoring his squirming. �I don�t know,� she said. �But it doesn�t matter. You�re not just made up of bits of him and me. You�re your own man, Frankie. You can choose to be whatever you want.�

She let him go, and patted his head. �I�m sorry,� she said. �I was young. And stupid. But I love you with all my heart, Allen Francis, and who your father was has not a thing to do with that.�

The child nodded. �Maybe I�ll meet him someday, though,� he said.

Dolores suppressed a shudder, and put her arm over her son�s shoulders. �I suppose anything�s possible in this world,� she said.

Chapter 8- Strife

�I understand you count on him,� Wesley began, �but he�s a disruptive influence. His drinking is completely out of control, his money problems� He needs discipline. Guidance.�

Angel shook his head. �Cordelia just pointed out he�s a grown man,� he said, �and here you are talking about him like he�s a wayward child.�

�Grown he may be,� Wesley agreed, �but he acts like an overgrown boy. Not that I didn�t do my own share of tippling at university, but this is quite out of hand. And now he�s putting Cordelia in danger from God knows what all.�

�You�re not wrong,� Angel admitted.

�I suppose we must make allowances, Angel,� Wesley went on. �And I can understand how you feel a certain closeness. You come from the same low kinship��

Angel stiffened. �You mean we�re both part demon?� he said.

�Actually, I meant you were both Irish,� Wesley said, slightly embarrassed to hear it out loud.

�Racism doesn�t really become you, Wesley,� Angel said angrily.

�I�m sorry,� Wesley said seriously. �He just brings out the worst in me.�

�I made him promise me he wouldn�t do any more gambling,� Angel said. �He swears last night was an old debt.�

�Do you believe him?� Wesley asked.

�I don�t know what to believe,� Angel said. �But he�s staying here for a few nights, anyway. I�ll lean on him. He won�t like it��

�But he respects you, anyway,� Wesley said. �And acting as a messenger for The Powers That Be is his fate. Like it or not, he�s tied to you.�

�Until he can atone,� Angel said softly.

�And he�s young,� Wesley said. �We both forget how young sometimes, I think.�

�Twenty-four,� Angel murmured, almost to himself.

�He still has growing up to do, it seems.�

�Yeah,� Angel said. �A lifetime�s worth.�

Chapter 9- Love

Harriet, an American student at Trinity College, who was called Harry by everyone, handed a stack of dishes down from the kitchen cabinet at the St. Andrew Avellino Church Mission.

�Thank you, dear,� said the nun who accepted them, Sister Julia. �And don�t worry,� she added, �they should be here soon.�

�Who?� Harry said.

�The young men.�

Harry flushed. �That�s not the reason I�m here, Sister,� she mumbled.

�You�re a good girl, Harry,� Sister Julia said, �but indulge us old folks. Playing matchmaker is one of life�s little pleasures.�

As if on cue, a half dozen young men entered the kitchen, carrying boxes of food. Harry, still perched on the step-stool, had a perfect vantage point to observe them. �Are they students?� she whispered.

�Some are, some aren�t,� Sister Julia answered. �Any in particular?�

A dark-haired man, a little better dressed than his fellows in a collar and tie, directed the others to sort and stow the supplies. He looked up suddenly, right into Harry�s eyes, and she gasped. �Who is he?� she said under her breath.

�Oh, yes,� the nun said knowingly. �You�ve a good eye. He�s one of the grade three teachers��

But the young man had already covered the distance to where Harry stood. He reached up a hand to help her down. �How do you do,� he said, �I�m Francis Doyle. I don�t believe we�ve met��

Chapter 10- Weakness

Angel exited the elevator in his apartment to find Doyle standing over the kitchen sink, downing a glass of whiskey. He turned to the vampire as Angel entered the room.

�I can�t believe those two,� he said, reaching for the bottle again. �What did they tell you?�

But Angel had reached the half-demon�s side, and he deftly plucked the bottle from Doyle�s grasp.

�Oh, come on, man,� Doyle complained, and Angel held up his hand in warning.

�Don�t,� the vampire said.

Doyle reached to take back the bottle, his expression begging silently, and Angel spun, hurling it across the apartment. It hit the bricks and shattered into a thousand pieces that glittered as they cascaded to the floor.

"What'd you do that for?" Doyle protested, and Angel turned on him.

"This has to stop," the vampire growled. "How are we supposed to help people if we can't depend on you?"

"You can depend on me," Doyle said, his voice low. "You can depend on me to have skull-splitting visions every two days or so."

"Oh, don't start on me with the self-pity," Angel said, a mocking smile starting to play over his lips. "I'm the Shaolin master of self-pity."

It was a reference to a Hong Kong flick the two had caught on late-night TV the last time Doyle had hid out in Angel's apartment, and the half-demon burst into surprised laughter.

Angel smiled back at him, then took hold of his shoulder and pushed him into one of the kitchen chairs. The vampire sat opposite and grew serious again.

"Our work here is hard on all of us," Angel began.

"I know," Doyle said.

"But we have to work as a team. I know you and Cordelia have had some rough times lately..."

"Masterpiece of understatement there," Doyle muttered.

"And I know Wesley can be a bit stiff," Angel continued.

"He can be a colossal wanker, is what," Doyle exclaimed. "I know you're the boss, Angel, but..."

"I think you're being a bit hard on him," Angel said. "I mean, he wasn't in town two days before helping us save Cordelia from the empath demon."

"Cordelia?" Doyle said. "What're you talking about? It was me you saved from the empath demon, and I as much helped save myself as Wesley did."

Angel swallowed hard before speaking. "You're right," he said lightly. "I meant you." He forced a chuckle. "What was I thinking? Why would they want Cordelia anyway?"

But Doyle wasn't laughing. "What's going on?" he said.

Chapter 11- Ritual

Dolores stood in the doorway, watching her son fumble with the bowtie, untying and retying it four times with shaking fingers, before finally entering the room.

�Let me, Francis,� she said.

She pulled the cloth around his neck, and with sure hands tied a crisp, tight knot.

�Thanks, Mom,� the young man said.

Dolores put her hands on his shoulders, smoothing the jacket down, then tugged lightly on the lapels, straightening it. �You haven�t put on your cufflinks,� she said.

�Is that what those were?� he answered.

She picked them up off the nightstand and folded back one jacket sleeve, then the other, redoing the shirt cuffs properly with the onyx links. Wistful now, she reached out and cupped her son�s cheek in one hand.

�You�ve grown up so fast,� she said. �It seems like just yesterday I was rocking you in the cradle. Now you�re going to be a married man. I�m going to be the mother of a married man.�

He reached out and gave her a fond hug. �A young thing like you?� he said. �They�d never believe it if you told them.�

Dolores squirmed out of her son�s embrace and turned to look around his room, the room he�d be leaving now. It was mostly empty, with only a few remnants of his childhood left behind. Some books and records. Some toys. Two model airplanes suspended from fishing line, frozen in aerial combat.

�I know I haven�t always been much of a mother to you�� she said.

�Don�t say that,� he argued, �I couldn�t have asked for better.�

Dolores smiled. �You�re a very sweet boy to say so, Frankie� Francis. But I was very young. Not very smart. I wasn�t thinking about you at all when I got pregnant.� She paused, drawing a deep breath. �There�s something I�ve always meant to tell you, Francis. There was�� She stopped, uncertain.

Her son stepped closer and touched her arm. �You can tell me anything, Mom,� he said.

�When you were born� I came home to your Grandmother. She took me in when she hadn�t any obligation to. If she�d closed the door in my face, I wouldn�t have been surprised. She told me that we��

Suddenly a voice shouted from downstairs. It was Mark, the best man. �Get a move on, Frank,� he called. �You don�t want to be late to your own wedding.�

�One minute,� the groom called back. He put both his hands on his mother�s arms now. �What is it?� he said softly.

But the moment was gone for Dolores. �I just wish she could have lived to see this day,� she said.

Chapter 12- Revelation

�It�s not anything,� Angel said. �I�m a little strung out, is all. I said Cordelia�s name instead of yours.�

�It didn�t sound like a mistake,� Doyle said. �What aren�t you telling me?�

Angel stood and walked away from him, stalking restlessly around the apartment.

Doyle trailed after him. �Does this have anything to do with my kissing her?� he said. �That night we fought the Scourge. I thought I would die and I tried to pass my gift to her. Did it have some sort of effect?�

�No!� Angel said. �You didn�t die and you�re here and you still get the visions. Cordelia has nothing to do with this.�

�Something happened, didn�t it?� Doyle insisted. �It hasn�t been right between us since then. Something feels off. I know you feel it, too. And you know why.�

�No I don�t,� Angel said, but there was none of the familiar confidence in his voice.

�Don�t go all quiet and mopey on me, man,� Doyle said, �this is me you�re talking to. The conduit to the Powers That Be. If something�s not right with the world, I�ll hear about it sooner or later. I�d rather hear it from a friend.�

Angel put his hands over his ears, trying to block out the sound of Doyle�s voice. �I can�t tell you,� he said. �I�m only trying to protect you.�

Doyle took hold of Angel�s wrist, pulling it away from his head. �This is big, Angel,� the half-demon said. �I�m more than your messenger. I�m your friend, too. You can tell me.�

The vampire looked up, and tears stood in his eyes like diamonds. �I don�t want to lose you,� he said. �Not again.�

Doyle dropped his hand and stepped back. �Again�� he said faintly.

�Something did change that night, Doyle,� Angel began. �You should have died on that ship. In another world, you did die. I saw you.� He turned his head painfully away, still torn by the memory, even though Doyle stood not three feet from him. �I couldn�t accept� I needed you, Doyle.�

�The Oracles...� Doyle breathed.

�They wouldn�t help me,� Angel said. �They called me self-serving, and said it would leave your atonement unfulfilled.�

Doyle swallowed hard. �Where did you go?�

�Months went by,� Angel said. �And every day, I felt your loss. Cordelia inherited your visions, but still there was an emptiness. We were approached by a necromancer. He needed security at a ritual. He hired me. In payment, I asked him to bring you back. But not from the dead. Not like me.�

"He changed things; made it so I didn't die."

"They were minute changes, Doyle," Angel said. "I kept expecting some kind of Twilight Zone-type disaster when the time shifts were made, but it didn't happen. Things weren't exactly perfect, but we can work them out. And now you know everything, and nothing's changed." Angel almost laughed with relief. "We can go from here. We can make it like it was."

Now Doyle turned away, his fair eyes suddenly guarded. "This explains a lot," he said softly.

"But it's okay," Angel insisted. "I'll pay off your debts. I can get the money. You can stay here as long as you want. It will be better now. I should have told you sooner."

Doyle had moved further off, back into the kitchen, and his head was bowed over the sink. Angel put a hand on his back.

"I'm sorry," the vampire said. "I know it's a lot to take in."

"I need some time to think," Doyle said, his voice tense with some emotion Angel couldn't name. "Leave me alone for awhile. Please, man."

Angel hesitated, his hand still on his friend's back.

"Don't worry," Doyle said. "I won't disappear."

Chapter 13- Destiny

He was half-horrified, half-fascinated by what was happening to him.

It had been terrifying at first, and Harry had screamed until he could re-assure her he wasn't hurt. But what exactly it was, he couldn't say.

He leaned closer to the bathroom mirror. He could hear Harry pacing outside and tried to ignore it as he made his own face shift, from the rather bland countenance he saw each day to some sort of fierce creature out of a Clive Barker novel, his flesh a mottled indigo covered with soft spines, like a horse chestnut, his eyes a bright red.

There had to be some reasonable explanation, he told himself, although the only ones he could conceive of at the moment involved either the loss of his sanity or the unwitting ingestion of hallucinogenic drugs.

But Harry had seen it, too. Had tried to call an ambulance, even. He'd begged her not to, sensing, somehow, that this wasn't natural.

He touched the spines gently with his fingers and felt then give slightly. Bizarre, to say the least. He also began to be aware of other sensations when he allowed this aspect to express. He could hear better, his eyesight was more sensitive, he expected he might be able to see in the dark. And his sense of smell, unbelievable. He could smell things he hadn't even been aware had odors. The porcelain on the sink and tiles, cool and crisp, the
acrid tang of Harry's magazines on the toilet tank, even the metal in the pipes, which made the back of his throat tingle.

He changed back to his normal self, finding the shift both more natural and more difficult. He knew what to do, but his body resisted, as though it wanted to remain blue and spiny.

He exited the bathroom to find Harry mid-pace. "Please let me call a doctor," she said. "There's something very wrong with you, Francis."

"Maybe," he agreed. "But don't call anyone just yet. I'm going to visit my mother."

Dolores Doyle's hands were shaking as her son described what had happened to him, how his face had erupted into spines of its own accord. And when he showed her, she dropped her teacup to the carpet.

"I hate to ask you this, Mom," he said as gently as he could. "But is there a chance this runs in the family?"

Dolores had laughed hysterically for a minute and a half before she could speak. And then, for only the second time in her life, she recounted her experience as a teenage cultist, of her "chosen duty" that had resulted in the birth of her son.

Francis Doyle listened. It would have sounded like madness, if the proof had not manifested itself only hours ago.

When his mother finished, he spoke at last. �Why didn�t you tell me,� he said.

�I didn�t think you ever had to know.�

He rose up, anger building in him. �What did you think,� he said. �You must have known it would come out sometime.�

�When you first were born,� Dolores said through tears, �I prayed the demon side would show itself, so we could stay with the sisterhood, so you would grow up and lead Ireland to freedom. Then I prayed it never would. That you could go to your grave never knowing.�

�Well it has,� he raged. �Every sneeze brings it out.� He drew in a horrified breath. �Oh, God,� he said, �what if it had happened in front of the children? What if it does happen in front of them?�

Dolores stood herself, holding her arms out to her son. �There�s people who study these things, Frankie. We can find out what to do. How to control this.�

Doyle let his face again erupt in blue spines. In spite of herself, Dolores gave a startled cry and flinched away.

�Control?� Doyle said, his voice thick with self-mockery. �I don�t even know what the hell I am. Harry and I were talking about having a baby, you know. I guess that�s out.�

�Frankie,� Dolores pleaded, reaching for him again, in spite of his appearance. �Please, be rational��

�Rational?� He laughed. �This is the least rational thing I�ve ever heard of. This pretty well turns my whole worldview around. Allen Francis Doyle, the half-man, half-monster. Step right up.�

�Frankie�� she whispered.

He headed for the door, struggling to control his features. �If Harry calls,� he said over his shoulder, �tell her I�ve gone to the pub.�

At the bar, he took six shots of Midleton Very Rare, one after the other, and returned home drunk for the first time in his life.

But not the last.

Chapter 14- Choice

Angel descended in the elevator to his apartment. His pursuit of another vampire through the neighborhoods of North Hollywood had ended in another bloody battle, but it had ended successfully, at least from Angel's point of view. He was battered, but nothing he couldn't recover from quickly. He hoped Doyle was awake. It would be pleasant to watch some dumb movie and shoot the breeze before crawling into bed.

No such luck. The half-demon was on the couch, still in his clothes, asleep. Angel stood watching him for several moments. He had wanted to protect Doyle, but the vampire now wondered if that was possible. Maybe, like Angel, he was bound to pain. Angel hoped not.

Doyle stirred slightly in his sleep, his breath coming shallow, his muscles relaxing ever so slightly. A dream, Angel thought, but it only lasted a second or two, before he was coiled up again.

Angel lifted a quilt from his bed and draped it over the sleeping form. No doubt Doyle would accuse him of being a mother hen in the morning, but Angel was willing to live with that. Then he fell into bed himself.

When he woke, he was alone in the apartment. The quilt he'd covered Doyle with lay crumpled at the foot of the couch, and the half-demon was nowhere to be seen. Angel listened carefully, but he wasn't upstairs either. The vampire climbed out of bed. It was not yet dawn.

He heard the latch on his tunnel trap-door click open, and he tensed. "Doyle," he called.

"Yeah, it's me," came the muffled reply. "Gimme a second."

The door swung open and Doyle climbed up. Angel could hear his heart was pounding.

"What's wrong?" he said.

"Nothing," Doyle said. "Didn't want to wake you."

"Where were you?"

Doyle didn't reply but reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle. "Don't give me an argument on this," Doyle said before Angel could comment. "It's my last one. I promise. I just didn't want my last drink in this life to be some cheap American bilgewater. You can appreciate that, can't you?"

Angel nodded. "I guess I can," he said.

"Get some glasses," Doyle said. "This is meant to be sipped reverently, between friends."

Angel did, and the two sat at the table. Doyle carefully poured the amber liquid into the glasses. It was fine and dark.

"I've been saving this," Doyle said. "Midleton Very Rare. They only make a limited amount each year. Individually numbered bottles. Almost impossible to get outside Ireland." He took a mouthful and sighed. "As good as I remember," he said softly.

Angel sipped some himself. It was smooth and warm, maybe the best whiskey he'd ever tasted.

"I've been thinking about what you told me today," Doyle began. "And I said it explained a lot."

"I remember," Angel said.

"I've felt differently since that night. The night I was supposed to die. As you said, in another world I did die." Doyle took another sip of whiskey, holding it in his mouth a moment before swallowing. "Oh, that's good," he said. "Anyway, I don't mean things feel just a little off, or I get a sensation every once in a while. I mean I don't feel like I'm living my life anymore. I do things, and things are done to me, but it's like they don't affect me. When those guys chased me and beat me two nights ago, it was like it was happening to someone else. Like they could kill this strange person, and I wouldn't care."

"I'd care," Angel said.

"I know, man, and that hasn't changed." Doyle paused, thinking. "I know you said there weren't consequences to changing the timestream, but the more I thought about it... Since the night I told you about, the one that got me on the hook with The Powers That Be, it felt like everything happened to me for a reason. Coming to California, the visions, you..."

Angel's hands were shaking. He wanted to say something, to stop Doyle from telling him these things, but he couldn't. He took a drink, instead.

"You, especially, man," Doyle said. "You understand. Your friendship is the best Goddamn thing that happened to me since my demon half presented itself. Nothing's ever gonna change that." He took a few more mouthfuls of whiskey, slowly, draining the glass before going on. "But when the beacon was destroyed, when I hit that ship�s deck, alive... That purpose..."

"You went to the Oracles, didn't you," Angel said. It wasn't a question.

Doyle nodded. He poured another glassful of Midleton. "They're pretty pissed at you," he said.

"I'm not surprised."

"But it'll all be a moot point soon."

"Doyle..." Angel said, his voice barely audible.

"Don't," Doyle said. "I know you understand this, Angel. You've made the hard choices. You gave up being human, for Christ's sake. But you won't remember this. It'll go back to what it was. What it should be."

Angel wanted to grab Doyle, shake him and scream, or just hold on, protect him from the forces that would overwhelm them both. But he couldn't move. "I don't want you to die," he said.

"Believe me," said Doyle, "I don't want to die. But for me, it won't be burning apart in some death ray. It'll be here. With you. And then I'll be wherever it is we go." He took a long draw of the whiskey. "The Oracles weren't real forthcoming on where that is, exactly, but I'm trying to have faith."

�I�m sorry,� Angel said. �They were right. I was selfish. I��

�I don�t have long,� Doyle interrupted gently. �There�s so much to say. So much I wanted to� it doesn�t matter.� He topped off his glass, then Angel�s. �No point wasting this, though. Fight the good fight, Angel. Make sure I see you again.�

�Doyle�� Angel said again, helplessly.

Then�

Epilogue- Other Worlds

Angel was screaming his name, over and over, as he picked himself up off the deck and ran for the ladder, screaming as he climbed.

Doyle leapt at the beacon, caught it just as Angel reached the platform, turned back and smiled, actually smiled.

�No!� Angel screamed, as the beacon flared, stripping the skin, then the flesh, from Doyle�s body. And then he was gone.

Angel sat up in bed, still screaming �no!� If his heart beat, it would have been racing.

The vampire threw himself out of bed and prowled through his rooms, torn apart with grief as though the wound of Doyle�s sacrifice was still fresh. He found himself in his kitchen and he pawed through the cabinets, searching for distraction. His hand fell on a bottle and he drew it out.

It was whiskey, of course. Angel had found, since Doyle�s death, that the half-demon had stashed bottles all over the office and apartment. Angel thought he had found them all by now, but, in a way, he was glad this one had escaped his notice.

He looked at the label. Irish. And the bottle was nearly empty. Neither came as much of a shock. He poured some into a glass and carried it into his chair. He sank down into it and took a sip of the drink.

It was warm and smooth and fine.

And Angel wept.

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