Title: The Summoning

Pairing: Angel/Doyle

Rating: R

Category: angst, drama

Series: No.

Archive: Yes; just tell me where you've got it.

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon et al own these lovely characters; I'm borrowing.

Summary: Angel wants Doyle back, at any cost.

WARNINGS: Are below, underneath the spoiler space. I'd really rather you not read the warnings before you read the story.

Spoilers: for "Hero" and for a long-past event in BtVS canon.

Notes: The words Angel speaks are actual Sumerian words, roughly translated and used with incredibly bad grammar, I'm sure. A portion of this story involves a character from Buffy lore; it's helpful if you're familiar with that series, but not necessary.

S P O I L E R S ! Warnings: XX/character death of a canon character, *not* Cordy or Angel. And Angel isn't warm and fuzzy in this; he's selfish almost to the point of being out of character. If that bothers you, please don't read.

Also: for those of you familiar with the Necronomicon, I'm aware it's not a grimoire, but it's more fun this way.

THE SUMMONING

By Destina Fortuno

Angel knew he should have been better prepared, more equipped to handle yet another loss. After all, he'd killed his family, his friends, countless victims...he'd lost comrades and lovers, too...but Doyle's death cut his knees out from under him. The loss of his friend left him gasping for air, suffocating under the weight of grief and guilt.

It was perhaps inevitable that Angel's rage would turn inward, looking for the abyss of his demon half, the evil that was pressed tightly back against his conscience. Such a persistent need for answers could not be denied for long, and darkness took hold of Angel on the second night of mourning, when the numbness was worn away by the raw, bloody edges of his grief. Instead of pushing his impulses away, he embraced them, allowing his fantasies to fill the empty places in his heart where Doyle's warmth had been ripped away. And with the darkness came an idea, half-formed, dancing around his conscience, mocking his torment.

He let the idea blossom, but his shame made him look away before he could consider it too closely. Instead, he sat with Cordelia, staring at Doyle's video ghost, fanning the flames of misery. Every flickering gesture and insecure smile pounded home the quiet void created by Doyle's death.

That night, after Cordelia cried herself to sleep on the couch in the office, he permitted himself the luxury of examining his own knowledge for something that might be helpful, something that might take the pain away. His mind had buried crucial information in distant memory, since drastic and forbidden measures were too appealing, and he didn't trust himself. He had to pry it up, freeing what he needed from the clutches of his morality. The answer seemed so clear and close that he was stunned by its availability.

He'd forgotten about the carved box, corrupted and smelling of the grave, squirreled away among the artifacts of his past. When he remembered, the thought of it planted the tiny seed of obsession in his mind, enough to give clarity to the black miasma of his despair.

It only took a moment to retrieve the box from its hiding place, deep in the recesses of a carton of old books and relics. Angel turned his face away from the swirling cloud of dust unsettled by his actions and carried his prize to the living room. With reverence, he set the box down on the coffee table, backing away as though burned, wiping his hands on his shirt.

No question about it, the box had once been a work of art. Faint ebony markings were still etched in the alabaster, swirling representations of chaos and despair, echoes of what he would find if he opened the box.

Eyes fixed on the small, pale object, he sat and thought about that possibility for hours, trying to sort through the mass of conflicting feelings in his heart. When the sun rose, he went to his bed with a troubled spirit, and his dreams that day were fitful ones, filled with images of Doyle. Doyle with troubled eyes, Doyle trying to speak...Doyle, in infinite variety, with him until he woke, until he turned in the bed and found only vacant sheets beside him.

Always the same bright hope, always the same crushing reality.

On the second night, he sent Cordelia home early and went downstairs to look at the box, drawn like a moth to a flame, mindless and instinctual. Almost without conscious will, he retrieved a soft rag and wiped down the filthy, neglected edges, cleaning it with reverence. His hands seemed to crave the feel of the cool, smooth surface; his body hummed with electricity, energized by possibility. His hand lingered near the clasp, fingers tracing the corroded metal fastenings, before moving regretfully away.

He slept only when he was at the point of exhaustion, hoping to banish the dreams, but they came anyway, stronger and more urgent than before. Doyle's hand touched his own, pleading, reminding him that it was all his fault. Angel reached for his fingers, intending to wrap his own around them, to crush them against his chest, but they dissolved into reality. And with waking came realization.

Doyle's death *was* his responsibility. His, to make right again.

Still, it wasn't until the fifth night that he found the courage to open the box. He had not been sure he would actually do it, not until the catch was sprung and the smell of ancient leather and mottled paper wafted out from the interior. Slowly, he raised the lid, careful not to jar the ancient artifact or its contents.

With hands that trembled slightly, he lifted the book from its protective shell and laid it on the table, fighting the urge to flinch away. Mesmerized by the black leather, he delicately opened the cover with two hands, gently exposing the first cracked and yellowed page within.

His fingertips brushed across the word written there, and he spoke it aloud, shuddering with the power it contained.

"Necronomicon."

Just saying the word made his intentions real, and seemed to drive him further into the quiet madness possessing his better judgment. He began to turn the pages, skimming through the introductory information until he reached the section he was seeking. He read the words silently, over and over, until they seemed emblazoned on the very air. Sisitu mitutu. Somehow, seeing the words in their native state blunted the impact, shrouded their horror, and he didn't have to think of the terrible price to pay, not unless he translated them, not unless he said it plainly.

Sisitu mitutu. Summoning the dead.

He closed the book deliberately and covered his face with his hands. Violent tremors passed through him, and a spark of self-loathing began to grow deep in his soul.

Accepting Doyle's death wouldn't be possible. From the moment he'd seen his friend melt away like a phantom exposed to the bright light of day, there had been nothing to soothe his pain. He understood Doyle's sacrifice for what it was, knew he was meant to live and do all the things Doyle meant for him to accomplish, but his death seemed pointless nonetheless. He wanted back all the things that were lost to him, wanted the chance to protect Doyle, to do it better and faster, and not be caught off guard.

Somehow the cost seemed completely irrelevant in the light of Doyle's importance. Doyle deserved a decent life to make up for the tragedies of his past, and Angel had been set on seeing that he had that life. His selfishness burned like acid in the back of his throat, bitter and cynical. No use pretending it was all for Doyle, when in fact, he wanted it for himself just as much. Wanted *Doyle*, body and soul, near and warm and alive and close enough to touch. There would be no one to tell him otherwise, no one who knew him well enough to judge his motives; the Oracles had dismissed him, Cordelia would never understand, and there was no one to offer him council. At least, no one he trusted.

Except, perhaps, for one person who just might understand.

The trip took only a few hours, driven in a sort of urgent daze. He didn't hesitate until he was on the doorstep, fist poised over the surface of the door. He'd caused so much pain, and he had no right to expect anything, not after what he'd done. Still, for Doyle, he would take the chance.

A brief knock produced sounds of movement rustling inside. A few minutes later, as he was poised to knock again, the door swung open and the person he'd driven hours to see looked blearily out at him. Angel stood his ground, hands behind his back, feeling weary and old.

"Hi Giles. I'm sorry to wake you. Mind if I come in?"

Giles' features lost their sleepy edge immediately and hardened into remoteness. "For what purpose, if you don't mind my asking? It's the middle of the night. Some of us sleep after dark."

"I have a serious problem. It involves the use of the Necronomicon, and I don't have enough knowledge of the Dark Arts to figure this one out on my own."

"The Necronomicon is a fraud," Giles said impatiently. "Most of the versions are complete hoaxes, perpetrated by amateur sorcerers. There are only twelve authentic Books of Dead Names known to exist, and half of them have been lost for...oh." Comprehension dawned slowly, and he stepped aside. "Better come in, then."

Giles stood aside as Angel moved past him into the apartment. "Now you'd better tell me what this is all about. Where did you get a copy of the Necronomicon?" Giles asked, belting his robe and frowning.

"I've had it for a while, in storage. I forgot about it, actually. It was one of the items Dru unearthed while she was on her rampage, while I was still..." Angel couldn't bring himself to say the words. What he'd become when he had lost his soul, and the things he had done, would always be a source of immense pain for Giles. Because of it, their relationship would never be the same.

"Yes. I remember." Angel looked up sharply, saddened by the heaviness in Giles' voice, but Giles had already turned away, still speaking. "Perhaps it would help if you could tell me the specific problem. I'm sure I have some literature pertaining to the book, but-"

"Raising the dead. I need to know how it's done, what the risks are."

Giles stopped in mid-reach and dropped his hand, turning back from the bookcase. There was something strangely familiar in his eyes, something Angel recognized but couldn't put a name to.

"What, precisely, do you need to know? How to raise the dead, or how to stop someone from raising them?" Giles' tone was soft, dangerous.

"Either. Both."

Giles was looking at him like a man who had seen his own reflection, and the feeling of that gaze resting on him made Angel shiver. "I heard you had a bit of trouble recently. Cordelia called a friend with some news, and word made it 'round to Buffy that she'd lost someone, a co-worker. Wouldn't have anything to do with that, would it?" Like a cat scenting prey, Giles locked on to the central fact and took it between his teeth.

"Maybe." That small concession was all Angel would allow, and he resolutely pushed away the nagging sense of wrongness creeping up his spine.

"I don't think I need to tell you how incredibly foolish it would be for you to even consider something like this. It's enormously risky. Too many things can go wrong, even for a skilled sorcerer."

"Then help me." Angel made the words less of a request than an impatient demand, and Giles' eyes grew cold.

"No."

A refusal that should have been final, irrevocable - but to Angel, it was unacceptable. "Giles, dammit, you have to help me. This wasn't supposed to happen like it did..." The moment the words left his tongue, Angel knew his mistake, but it was too late to call them back.

"Perhaps you should consider to whom you're speaking. After all, you did kill the woman I loved." Like snaps of a whip, each word flayed into Angel's skin, cutting and marking him with precision. Giles' quiet fury held an undertone of menace, and he stepped closer to the vampire, tilting his head to look at him. "Don't you suppose thoughts like these crossed my mind every day, every moment for *weeks* after you took her from me? Do you think I didn't search for the appropriate incantations? What do you think I would have given to hold that book of yours in my hands, Angel?"

Silenced, Angel lowered his head. Some small part of him refused to quiet, and it chanted to him, reminding him of why he came. He should have felt shame, remorse - something - but his heart was focused elsewhere, and he didn't want to remember how it felt to take pleasure in killing Jenny. He didn't want to know Giles had loved her. He didn't want to hear it, not now, not when it was so important that he stay focused on getting Doyle back.

"I'm sorry, Giles," was all he could whisper.

"Listen to me. If you do this thing, there will be consequences. Dreadful consequences. Your friend might come back without a soul. Would you really want him to endure a half-life?" Giles began to reach out, but the hand stilled halfway to Angel's shoulder and dropped back to his side.

"There are ways to ensure it doesn't happen like that," Angel said stubbornly, ignoring the look of dismay on Giles' face. "Help me. Please."

*Because I'm going to do it whether you help me or not.*

The unspoken words resonated between them, caught in the void created by their silence. They stood motionless for a long moment, engaged in a silent battle of wills, before Angel broke the silence.

"I'll go. I'm sorry."

"The key is in the words." Giles hesitated, speaking so rapidly and low that Angel could barely hear him. "You must ask for the return of his body and his soul, intact, undamaged. I don't know the incantation. I've never seen the book."

"What will..." Angel stopped, because his throat seemed to have closed. Giles wouldn't meet his eyes. "What will happen if I do this?"

"I don't know," Giles answered truthfully. "You may find a way to get what you want, Angel, but there is always a cost. Always. That book was hidden for centuries and debunked as a myth for good reason. Its power is too seductive. You should destroy it. Without using it."

Suddenly Angel found himself sitting on a corner of the sofa, betrayed by legs which were unaccountably weak. "I don't know what else to do," he said, and the words were a confession to a man who held no sympathy for the ache in his soul.

"What do you want, Angel?" Giles' frustration was clear. "Do you want me to talk you out of it, or do you want me to reassure you? I'm afraid I can't do the latter, and as for talking you out of it...you know it's wrong. I needn't tell you that. But I sense that what I say doesn't matter at this point."

"It wasn't supposed to happen to him. It should have been me," Angel answered, leaning forward, elbows on knees.

"Yes, well. Perhaps it should have been you, but it wasn't. And that's the way of things," Giles replied, and the subtle anger was back. "My advice would be to burn the book, before the temptation becomes too much to bear. Bringing back your friend may assuage your guilt, but it's against nature, against the way of things."

"I know," Angel said, rising from the couch. "But so was his death." There seemed nothing else to say, certainly nothing that would persuade either of them, and he turned to go. It had been a mistake to approach Giles, but he didn't bother to voice his apology. Giles wouldn't want to hear it.

"Angel." At the door, he turned halfway, long coat swinging behind him, to look at Giles, who said, "Whatever you do, be ready to accept the consequences." Angel nodded, and the door closed in his wake as he moved off into the night.

PART TWO

Six days. Six incredibly miserable days, each more heartbreaking than the last, beginning with Doyle's death and culminating with a disastrous visit to Giles. Angel stared into the bonfire he'd built and contemplated what he was about to do. In the end, it was really the only thing that made sense, the only thing that he *could* do.

It had taken time to find a stretch of beach secluded enough to build a good-sized fire that wouldn't attract the attention of the local cops. It would be best if he weren't interrupted.

He shrugged off his coat, tossing it aside, and crouched in the sand where he'd left the box. With one hand, he lifted out the Necronomicon, giving it a last lingering look.

And opened it.

In a clear voice, he spoke the words, words he'd practiced in hushed tones all day while the sun scorched away the hours.

"Annitu maqlu." \Behold the burnt offering.\ He raised his eyes to the slaughtered chickens, now crisped to a cinder on their pyre. "Ati me peta babka." \Gatekeeper, open your gate for me.\

A gust of wind surprised him, whisking the fire into wild and beautiful columns of flames. Sparks glowed hot against the night sky, wafting down onto shifting sand.

"Taru rabku, arammu halqu. Alaksu qabu!" \Return the messenger, the love I lost. I command thee!\

Angel's voice grew louder as the roar of the ocean became deafening. Clouds drifted across the silver-pale moon, ominously obscuring all light. Angel shifted uncomfortably inside the salt circle he'd drawn in the sand, and continued the incantation. "Wussuru ina tiamatu, duranki zumru. Mitutu, qitrubu eribu." \Release him from the abyss with his body and spirit bonded. Dead one, draw near and enter.\

As if the skies had opened up, rain began to pour down from above, and lightning energized the air with electricity. The distant rumble of thunder offset the crackling in the atmosphere; Angel's hair stood on end, and he fought down a rising tide of panic. Too late to turn back. He forced his mouth to open, made his lips move, and shouted the last of the spell.

"Negeltu ditallu, tarn!" \Rise from the ashes...and return.\

A formless scream tore from Angel's throat as pain crashed into him, driving him to his knees. The book tumbled from his hand, and he pitched forward, palms grappling at sand, fingers clutching for relief. And screamed again, one word, as lightning battered at him. "Doyle!"

As suddenly as the agony began, it stopped, and he collapsed to the wet, cool sand with relief, body quaking uncontrollably. Angel pressed his face into the yielding ground and forced back the noises of futility and anger that threatened to erupt from his throat.

Later, he would wonder how much time had passed, or if time passed at all, as he lay there. Finally, he sat up, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, listening to the sound of the surf, torn between relief and crushing disappointment. Giles had been right. He had to be prepared to accept the consequences of failure. He had to -

"Angel?"

So soft, almost a whisper, and Angel twisted in the sand to find the source of the sound.

Pale skin, glowing in firelight. Shaking arms and legs, supporting the weight of a slender body. Dark hair, shining, and as the head tilted up, confused eyes, pleading silently for help. Angel processed it all, one image at a time, until the puzzle pieces slammed together. "Doyle," he breathed in disbelief, scrambling to his feet, stumbling toward the figure that was crawling toward the fire on its hands and knees.

Angel snatched up his coat and dragged it with him as he dropped down in front of Doyle. With a swift motion, he draped it around the other man, who was naked as the day he was born. "I don't believe it," he said softly, fighting to keep the awe out of his voice. His arms closed around his friend, dragging him upright and onto his knees so he could look at him, just *look*, see him and touch him and know he was real. His hands were moving of their own accord across flesh that was whole, undamaged, intact.

"C'mon, man, d'ya have to molest me?" Doyle's shaky voice, muffled against his chest, brought a brilliant smile of pure joy to Angel's face. He chuckled, smoothing the side of Doyle's face with his fingertips.

"Sorry. I'm just glad you're all right."

"What the hell has happened?" Doyle's hands gripped Angel's forearms, giving him enough stability to balance on his knees, and Angel lifted him the rest of the way to his feet. "Last I remember, I was...I was..." An annoyed frown darkened his face, and Doyle paused. "I remember a light, and I felt good, knowin' that whatever it was, it was the right thing to do...and then I was here, weak as a newborn."

"It's a long story," Angel answered softly, captivated by the sight of Doyle's lips moving, of his chest rising and falling, hypnotized by his lilting voice. "I'll tell you, as soon as you're stronger."

"Yeah, well. At this rate, it'll be a while." One corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile as Doyle looked at Angel.

That smile was his undoing, and Angel bent his head, brushing his lips over Doyle's. But it wasn't enough, not as those lips parted beneath his own, inviting him, welcoming him, and he covered that mouth, exploring it slowly and completely. The kiss took on a rhythm of its own, sensual, as their tongues touched in an exquisite reunion. Angel claimed what he had lost, and Doyle surrendered to it, without hesitation.

Angel broke away, burying his face in Doyle's hair, wondering what to say. All the questions flooded back to him, and none of them had answers. How well would Doyle take the truth? Should he tell him, or should he lie? What would Cordelia say, and would she ever understand?

"I'm glad you're all right," was all he could say, and in his heart, he acknowledged his gratitude to The Powers That Be.

At that moment, Doyle stiffened in his arms, pushing back with a gasp, one hand pressed to his right temple. "Ah, damn!" he groaned, falling backwards. "Some things haven't changed - ahh!" In the throes of a vision, he grimaced, face contorted.

Angel supported him helplessly, thinking with grim humor that at least Cordelia would have something to be grateful for, with Doyle back. But those thoughts passed quickly as Doyle's eyes flew open, and there was a melancholy reproach in them that chilled Angel to the bone.

"You have to see the Oracles. Now."

"I'm taking you home first," Angel insisted. "You're freezing. You need some warm clothes and-"

"No, Angel, now." The stress in Doyle's voice got Angel's attention. "*Right now.* Something's wrong, you've done something..."

"We'll talk about it later." Angel made an attempt to hustle Doyle along, but his friend wouldn't budge.

"What have you done?"

"Later," Angel said again. "If I have to see the Oracles now, this can wait until we're home. I'll tell you everything then." He scooped up the Necronomicon and dropped it into the box, then tucked the container under his arm.

Doyle's eyes narrowed, but he nodded, and allowed himself to be led off the beach. He moved unsteadily, like a child just learning to walk, and the sight of it both reassured and troubled Angel.

As Angel put a hand on his arm to help him in, Doyle moved away, subtly. "I've got it," he said, scooting over on the seat, eyes fixed straight ahead.

Not a good sign, Angel thought, as he rounded the car and climbed in. Not a good sign at all.

*****

Twice before, Angel had gone to see the Oracles, once with Doyle and once without. This time, he left Doyle in the car, wrapped up in his coat and a spare blanket. Being away from him at that moment was like trying to see without his eyes; he felt lost and impatient. He wanted nothing more than to be with Doyle, to warm him and feed him and wrap him in soft clothes and tell him the story, tell him how horrible it had been without his presence in their lives for the last six days.

But it would have to wait.

A pinch of powder did the trick, and the portal glowed with unearthly light, beckoning him. Quickly, he stepped through.

An invisible force with unimaginable strength lifted Angel, tossing him with explosive violence across the room and pinning him to the cold wall. His feet dangled several feet above the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, dreading what he might see when he opened them, and tried to focus on pushing away the pain coursing through him.

"Foolish," a voice hissed near his ear, just before the male and female Oracles, golden twins, appeared directly in front of and below him, looking up at him. They stepped closer in unison, and Angel slid down the wall, still pressed firmly against it, until the tips of his toes brushed the floor.

"Your friend's act was a selfless one, born of his love for you and his understanding of service to others," the female Oracle told him, eyes flashing. "You have violated the most basic laws of nature to undo what was done. You do not deserve to live."

Angel set his jaw, determination creeping into his tone. "You're right. I deserve to die. But not for summoning Doyle. I couldn't protect him when he needed it most; I was responsible for his death. It should have been me. So take me." As he said the words, a tremendous burden was lifted from his heart, unleashed by his honesty.

"This is a disturbing trend on your part," the male Oracle sneered. "First you offer your mortality to protect the Slayer. Now you offer up your life to atone for your stupidity in raising this inferior being?"

"Where will it end?" his sister agreed, nodding. "You cannot bargain with The Powers That Be every time the world does not meet with your expectations."

"You are a warrior. You are needed to serve the Cause." The male Oracle paced a few steps, then returned. "Unacceptable!"

"The cause," Angel said scornfully. "Why should I serve the cause if it costs me everything that's important to me?"

The male Oracle stepped close, looking up into Angel's face, eyes tiny slits of glittering anger. "You are bound by your demon blood," the Oracle reminded him. "You have no choice. You answer to The Powers That Be. It is your purpose."

"You are a servant of their will, and yet you used the Necronomicon for your own selfish purposes. It is an act one expects of the Servants of Darkness...not those who serve the light. It is...disappointing," the female said.

"I meant no harm," Angel protested. "I studied the text, to be sure I wouldn't change anything by my actions."

"There is always cause and effect. What you intended is irrelevant. You have interfered in the most basic process of the universe, and that cannot go unpunished." The male Oracle looked to his sister, who nodded.

"I'm afraid there can be no compromise this time," added the female Oracle thoughtfully. "There will be a heavy penance for what you have wrought. And you will have to live with the knowledge that you have caused this."

"The penance will be exacted," agreed the male Oracle coldly.

Fear washed over Angel, and he began to plead. "Not Doyle, not again. Or Cordelia. Don't take them. Please."

"You will be silent!" roared the male, outraged. "The penance has been decided. You should have given due consideration to the cost of your decision before you acted. Now you will go. I can no longer look at you. You disgust me."

Angel opened his mouth to speak and found himself hurled backwards, away from the light, back into the dark cave that housed the portal. He landed on his back, wincing at the bone-jarring impact. "I did what I had to do," he muttered, staring at the granite ceiling. "I did what I had to do..." The words fell flat, unconvincing.

*****

Doyle was quiet and reflective on the way back to Angel's place. For the moment, Angel was glad his friend hadn't started asking questions. He wasn't sure how he would find a way to explain, to justify what he had done. He knew the answers would come, in time, and that he would tell the truth. Eventually. When Doyle was ready.

Into the elevator, and down to his apartment. Doyle allowed Angel to fuss over him; there were dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes, signals that the transformation from whatever he had been back to living flesh had taken a deep toll. Angel found that he couldn't stop touching Doyle, and Doyle seemed content to allow the contact. As they moved through a series of routine activities - a quick meal, finding clean sweats for Doyle to sleep in - their connection to one another became stronger, more palpable. It eased Angel's mind, and it seemed to comfort Doyle.

It wasn't until Angel had sent his unusually silent friend off to a hot shower that he thought to check his messages. The red light on his machine blinked like a beacon, drawing him, and he clicked the play button. Cordelia's tearful voice filled the room.

"Angel? Where are you? I've been trying to find you for hours. Something awful has happened. Doyle's ex-wife is dead. Oh, my god. First Doyle, and now Harry. Oh, Angel, the way she died..." Cordelia's voice broke. "I'm just so glad Doyle didn't have to see this. It would totally have killed him. Angel, call me!"

With a click, the message ended. Angel moved as if in slow motion, touching another button to erase the message. He stood frozen in place, numb, unable to think.

"Angel!" shouted a voice from the bathroom. "These sweats are huge. Don'tcha have a clean t-shirt or somethin'?"

He listened to the sound of Doyle's call, but the words didn't register. One thought ran through his mind, in an endless loop, repeating - *having him here is worth any price* - and as he acknowledged the truth of it, his world shattered.

"Angel?"

It was worth any price.