Title: Darkness

Author/pseudonym: Lyric

Fandom: Angel

Paring: Angel/Doyle, very light Angel/Wesley

Rating: PG

Archive: Unless I already gave you permission, please ask first.

Series/Sequel: Nope.

Disclaimers: Angel, Doyle, and Wesley aren't mine, because I'll never in my life meet any men that look like that.

Notes: Sorry I've been MIA for a while, but real life has a nasty habit of rearing up and knocking you on your butt at the most inconvenient times. Despite my recent contraction of chicken pox *scratchscratchscratch*, things are finally settling down. This is just a little something that has been stuck in my head since last week's episode. Light on the action, heavy on the angst.

Summary: Angel does some late night thinking about love and loss.

Warnings: Spoilers up to and including 'I've Got You Under My Skin'. M/M implications.

DARKNESS

By Lyric

Angel lay in the thick darkness of his bedroom. The soft sheets that were tangled and bunched around his nearly naked body did little to ease his chill, but merely served as evidence to his uncharacteristic restlessness. His eyes were closed as if in a mock sleep, but the truth was he had grown tired of staring into the empty darkness that surrounded him. Tired of tracking the shifting shadows that fell into nothing. He was simply so tired.

Rest, however, maintained its adopted pattern of late, and continued to elude him. The office had long closed and Cordelia and Wesley had left, leaving Angel alone with his weary thoughts. The events of the last few weeks were leading Angel to believe that 'The Powers That Be' were not as interested in offering him a chance of redemption as they were in dealing him punishment. Angel was not pitying himself, though, that was not the case at all. He knew very well what he had done and who he had been; the whispers from the demon that still lay deep in his hazy soul were never truly silent. It was that bitter knowledge drove him forward every bit as much as it held him down. It caused him to strive to protect the innocent, while shying from their friendly eyes.

Some had been persistent enough to slip in past his wall of isolation. If he had gotten up and walked through his apartment, he would have seen bits and pieces of things left behind by Cordelia and Wesley. The duo sometimes spent more office hours hanging out in Angel's apartment then in the actual office itself. Personally, the vampire thought it was more for the love of his cooking as opposed to any particular ambiance. Down here, they were closer to the kitchen. Wesley seemed to be particulary fond of his cooking.

It seemed his new friend was constantly hungry. Angel suspected that most of the meager pay that the vampire gave him was put more towards acquiring new, ancient, and extremely costly tools to help vanquish demons, and less towards groceries. Not that Angel minded, he actually enjoyed Wesley's company.

He knew that Wesley enjoyed his.

Angel sighed into the darkness. He had seen the hero-worship growing, or more accurately, glowing from Wesley's eyes. It was an undeserved respect that simultaneously embarrassed and frustrated the vampire, and to some extent, pained him.

He had seen the admiration that appeared in the chocolate of Wesley's eyes before, dipped in blends of blues and greens.

His closed eyes pressed tight at the thought, and he was mildly surprised that sudden thoughts of Doyle still tore at him every bit as harshly as they had since his death. He should have expected it, however, since a day or night had yet to go by without his thoughts turning towards the half-demon.

Even though it hurt, he allowed his mind to wander back to the earlier days of their association. Doyle had slipped into his life as easily as he had first slipped into the vampire's apartment, an intrusion that wasn't one at all. Trust was there from the start, quicker then it had been even with Buffy. Angel never could figure out why he accepted Doyle's friendship so readily. But there Doyle was, looking at Angel through clear beautiful eyes, offering everything that he was, all the comfort he had, and Angel had taken it, barely acknowledging to either Doyle or himself that he had done so.

And yes, there had been the traces of hero-worship in Doyle's eyes, but that eventuality faded and transformed into admiration, then to friendship, and then to something more.

It was that 'something more' that had driven Angel from sleep, and kept him a safe distance from Wesley. Even though Angel agreed to allow the ex-Watcher to work for him, every instinct screamed at him not to get too close. The danger was simply too great.

Already, Angel saw himself being lowered from the impossibly high pedestal that Wesley had placed him. The englishman had begun to question Angel's judgement on certain matters, the bit with the tossing of the cross was proof of that. While Angel should have been relieved at the change, he was instead filled with apprehension. When Wesley had been merely looking up to him without question, Angel had been safe. Now, with the shifting of roles, Wesley would no longer be content to do whatever Angel told him. The ex-watcher wouldn't be satisfied until he no longer worked for the vampire, but worked _with_ him; as a team.

That was something he would not risk, a chance he could not take. It would prove all too tempting to delude himself into falling into the same pattern he had with Doyle. Already, he had felt himself slipping up. When he had called Wesley by Doyle's name earlier, realization had slapped him clear across the face. Through his pain, he was unconsciously seeking out a replacement for Doyle. This was something that was simply too unfair for Wesley. No matter what else may happen, Wesley was simply not Doyle. He could never replace what the vampire had felt for the half-demon.

It was doubtful that anyone could.

So what did that leave Angel? A purpose; the same one he had entered LA bearing, but now softened and stretched. Because even though he still sought to protect the innocent, that had expanded to include so much more. It was as if he could always hear that sweet lilt reminding him that it wasn't about saving lives, it was about saving souls, as his had been saved; saved over and over through the bittersweet comfort of all too short memories.

It left him here, hidden from the light, from all light, waiting to be called from the darkness by a voice that had fallen forever silent.

End