Rating: PG-13
Fandom:: Angel
Pairings: none
Timeline: Pre-Angel
Keywords: Angst
Spoilers: The Batchelor Party, Hero
(Just for what we learn of Doyle's past in those episodes.)
Summary: What happened to Doyle after his first vision and before he was assigned to Angel?
Author's Note: This is an on-going – yes, I am still working on it – following Doyle through his discovery of his destiny as a Messenger and his own journey in search of redemption.
Light.
It was the first thing that he was aware of as he slowly made his way toward consciousness. The next thing he was aware of was pain. Everything hurt. The pounding in his head sent a rhythm of agony throughout his body. He struggled for a moment to hold on to the numbing darkness but it was slipping away too quickly.
Sound began to intrude now. He could hear his neighbours arguing through the paper-thin walls and the hard base of music from somewhere down the block. It all added to the pounding inside his skull and his stomach rebelled. Somehow he managed to struggle out of bed and into the bathroom before emptying the meagre contents of his stomach into the toilet.
Another morning spent praying to the porcelain god, he thought wryly. At least he thought it was morning. It could be afternoon. Hell, he wasn't even sure what day it was.
He grabbed the side of the sink and pulled himself up. Turning on the water, he washed out his mouth and splashed some cold water on his face. He looked up into the old, cracked mirror as he turned the water off.
Allen Francis Doyle had thought himself fairly good-looking at one time, but at the moment he looked like shit. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, while his skin was pasty white. He turned away from the reflection in disgust; there was nothing there that he wanted to see. He stumbled back to bed and carefully lay down. Last night must have been some party, too bad he couldn't remember any of it. But then that was the point wasn't it? He drank to forget. To forget who he was... what he was... what he had done.
He almost winced at that last thought. It had been nearly two months since the demon had come to him for help. Two months since he had refused to become involved.
He'd lain awake all night after the demon had left, wrestling with his conscience and with the revulsion he felt towards the family ties the demon had claimed. He'd looked at that green face, the spikes, seen there the image of what he'd become that horrible day he'd learned the truth about what he was. He couldn't face it – rejected the demon as he'd rejected that horrifying, terrifying part of himself.
Sometime the next morning someone had knocked on the door and he'd reluctantly got up to answer it. He never had found out who it had been. As he walked toward the door It had struck. He still didn't know quite what it was or how it happened. It had been like a bolt of lightning in his head – he had seen and felt everything as the demon who had come to him and many others of his kind were massacred in a few bloody moments. He had come to himself again lying on the floor, his head pounding to the echoes of screams. He hadn't made it to the bathroom that day. Merely threw up where he lay.
He had never been as frightened in his life as when he crept into the building he had seen inside his head. He hadn't wanted to be there but he needed to know. It had been day outside but he had needed a flashlight within the windowless building. A flashlight he'd brought without thinking. Knowing in a way that had nothing to do with knowledge in the normal sense that he'd need it.
He groaned softly and rolled off the bed. He needed some aspirin and a drink. What he didn't need was to think about what he had seen that day. The bodies of men, women, and children. The kids were the worst. He'd seen a little boy just about the age his students had been before he had quit teaching. He remembered finding a pair of shoes on the floor. Shoes too small even for a child... the right size for a baby or a toddler. He would never forget sitting on the floor of that cold building holding that pair of shoes in his hands.
No.
He would not do this. He'd go crazy if he kept thinking about it. He stumbled into the kitchen and found a mostly full bottle of whiskey. Forget the aspirin. This was what he needed.
He opened the bottle and drank deeply, long ago inured to the burn. He drank nearly a quarter of the bottle as he stood there. Finally he leaned against the counter and studied the dirty floor. The place was a mess but what else was new? He felt a little better for the drink. Maybe he'd go to the pub tonight. See what games were going on. Maybe he could make some money. Enough to get some decent liquor to drink himself into oblivion with. It was the only peace he knew anymore. When he was drunk his guilt and self-loathing faded into nothingness.
He had always been fond of a good drink. He was Irish after all... well, half-Irish. But he hadn't known that then. He would have a drink sometimes in the evening, and once or twice on special occasions he would have a tad too much. Who didn't? He had even seen Harry have a bit more than she could handle.
He winced. Gods, he finally stopped thinking about the damn Brachen demons only to start thinking about Harry? It still hurt whenever he thought about his wife. She had walked out nearly six months ago now and he was beginning to wonder if the pain would ever ease. He had loved her, still did love her, so very much. Their wedding day was one of the happiest days of his life. And the year that followed had been as near perfection as could be had on earth.
It had all shattered so fast.
How could his mother have kept the truth of his father and his heritage a secret from him? At twenty-one his life had ended. He hadn't even known that demons existed until he had become one. Waiting to see what he had inherited from the demon father he'd never known, she had raised her son human with no knowledge of the creatures that shared the world with them. Harry and he had been talking about having children when his demon half presented itself. Needless to say, that had been the end of that discussion. And not too long after, the end of their marriage.
He had wanted to get the hell out of San Francisco. To get away from his mother and away from the memories of Harry and the life that he had once had. He had wanted to get as far away as he could. He'd only gotten as far as Los Angeles. But it was a big city where no one had known him. It had been easy to lose himself here. No one knew his past. Allan Francis Doyle had disappeared and Doyle was now in his place. And in time, maybe he'd be able to forget that other man had ever existed at all.
He laughed. Yeah, right. And maybe pigs will fly out my arse. What was the matter with him today anyway? He grabbed the aspirin off the counter and swallowed a few with another swig of whiskey, then glanced at the time. It was a little after three in the afternoon.
A shower and change of clothes later and he almost felt human again. This thought produced a smirk tinged with bitterness and regret.
He walked three blocks to his favourite bar and spent a fairly profitable evening. He actually won a bit of money, then promptly spent most of it on drinks. A stop at the liquor store on the way home relieved him of most of the rest.
He stumbled in about three o'clock in the morning. He wasn't nearly drunk enough for his taste yet. But he had some stuff in his bag that would take care of that. He set his purchases on the kitchen counter and shrugged off his jacket.
After a visit to the little demon's room he retrieved his cigarettes and lighter from his jacket pocket. He was about to light one when it hit.
His body convulsed as the sudden agony in his head blocked out the world around him. This one didn't last as long as the first one had. When it stopped he found himself on his knees leaning against the coffee table, with a very clear message in his mind.
Two names, two faces, two places, and two times. The first was a large black man by the name of Jonas. The second was a small Asian woman by the name of Nancy. Jonas would be at a bar the next morning at ten. Nancy would be at a restaurant that night at eight. Nancy was going to be in trouble and Jonas was supposed to help her.
Was he going insane along with all the rest of it? He'd never believed in psychics and premonitions, any more than he believed in demons or really even God for that matter. He'd been practical – if he couldn't see it, touch it, it didn't exist. And now he was having – what? – visions? Like some stupid 900-number psychic? Was this some part of his heritage his mother had neglected to tell him as she'd neglected to tell him so much else?
What in all the Hell is going on?
Unfortunately, the only way to find out as far as he could see was to be at that bar the next morning and Doyle didn't like it. There was something very wrong about all of this. But somehow he knew that he would be at that bar just the same – because he needed to know. Just like he had needed to know about the demons, he needed to know if Jonas would help Nancy. He needed to know if they would even be there at all.
He needed to know that he wasn't entirely crazy.
