E-MAIL: Ciderbreak@aol.com
PART: Story 4 in the series. I hope you're in the long haul, because I meant it when I said it would get worse before it would get better…
DISCLAIMER: Joss, not I. No infringement implied.
DISTRIBUTION: Charity's Site, Fever of Fate, and when it gets fully operational…. MY WEBSITE!!! (More self-promotion later)
SUMMARY: Angel and Willow: not the typical happy couple.
FEEDBACK: If you love me. And I usually respond!
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"No thanks, I'm married. No, I can't stay. No, my husband is a secret government agent and we don't socialize due to security reasons." Willow repeated the mantra over and over again. The three sentences were familiar after only two weeks into the spring semester. As an off-campus student she felt separate from the other freshmen and often took the long way around campus to her car so she could pass by the dorms and hear the laughter. It was surreal that merely a month ago she lived inside those happy brick walls, loving UC Sunnydale and living with Buffy in a nice, comforting bubble. Doyle argued that having a werewolf ex and a supernatural roommate did not count as a "normal" bubble, especially adding in Willow's absentee parents and her extra extra-curricular activities, but he hadn't spent his life on a Hellmouth. He was new to the demon world. He just didn't get it.
Cordelia got it. She got it all too well and spent most of her time underhandedly berating Angel for his surly attitude around the office. He mostly ignored her or left the room, giving her a chance to turn her attention to Willow, who was usually sprawled out on the floor studying. Daily phone calls to Buffy eased the pain and loneliness somewhat, but Willow knew tired of reporting that Angel still didn't accept the bond and that life with him was excruciatingly hard. Xander was a better listener than Buffy, who had a certain emotional involvement in the matter, but he wasn't always around and kept making matters worse by offering to come and get her. He didn't believe the 20 mile rule would really stick.
Eventually the daily phone calls stopped.
Willow knew it would happen, and Buffy even purposefully mentioned it. It was too hard for the Slayer to move forward with Riley and her studies and her slaying and her life when Willow was in LA, permanently bonded to Angel. Of course Willow understood. Of course it was okay. Even though it was drastically not okay. Cordelia was no substitute for Buffy, Doyle meant well but was a guy and therefore didn't understand the unspoken nuances, and Angel, the one person who might have appreciated the depths of her soul, acted perfectly content to treat her with cold indifference.
"What are you going to do tonight, Willow?" Doyle asked politely at the end of the day. Cordelia unplugged the coffee pot as he shrugged into a hideous maroon jacket. He clashed with Cordelia, who wore a muted pink sweater set and a split skirt. Willow wondered if he dressed sloppily and unmatched on purpose to goad Cordelia, which wasn't hard to do. Their banter was a welcome distraction from all the tension radiating off Angel like a bad sunburn.
A thousand responses flew into her brain, some truthful, some sarcastic. Too tired to joke, Willow shrugged and gestured to a pile of schoolwork.
"You could always go get drunk with Doyle," Cordelia suggested brightly.
She expected Willow to laugh and roll her eyes in that "pshaw" way of hers, but the redhead looked up at Doyle with plaintive eyes and got to her feet.
"Please?"
"I don't think Angel would… ah, hell. Come on, Red."
"Hooray!" Willow cheered, and bounced on her feet.
"If you come home married, or tattooed, or pierced in any way, I am not responsible, got it?" Cordelia said warningly.
Willow *did* come home with a tattoo, a beautiful celtic knot in the small of her back. It hurt, but not as much as it would have if she hadn't been completely drunk off her ass and talking a mile a minute to anyone who would listen.
Doyle listened and learned volumes more about his usually quiet new friend. First, he learned that her normal quiet, seen-but-not-heard act was not natural to her character. She had plenty to say and most of it was intelligent. He also learned that she had a secret bank account that stored the proceeds from a software design program that no one else knew about. Well, no one else except Zube, the tattoo artist. He learned more about Buffy, Xander, and Giles, heard the entire tale of her failed romance with Oz, what she really thought about Disneyland, her favorite color, and how she still cried herself to sleep every night. Willow told him what the maelstorm felt like and confessed that with every kindness Angel showed her, even if it was something small like leaving enough hot water for her in the shower, their bond grew a little more. That explained the vampire's reticence to have any contact with her. He did not want to lose his precious memories of the only woman he loved. Doyle found out that she was a stone's throw away from depression and that she never grieved anything about the transition to LA.
The last part worried him the most. Angel looked up from his paperwork when Doyle assisted her into the office around four a.m. and wondered what on earth possessed them to go out drinking on a weeknight. The interruption annoyed him. He liked the quiet silence and the darkened office with the desk light the only illumination, because it cast long shadows against the opposite wall. Angel felt comforted by long shadows.
"Cordelia said it would be fun," Willow slurred, leaning against the door while Doyle lifted each leg and took off her shoes.
"You throw up, you clean it up," Angel responded as though ordering toppings for a pizza.
Doyle gawked incredulously at Angel, who'd turned back to the stack of paid invoices and neat file folders.
"Not gonna throw up," Willow said angrily. "You're a bastard, y'know that?"
"Willow, let's get y'tucked into bed," Doyle suggested softly. He'd had the same amount of liquor she'd had and was only slightly buzzed, plenty lucid enough to know that if she kept up her talkative streak Angel might get really angry with her. His self-control leaked out everywhere and most days he could barely keep his anger in check.
"Wanna take advantage of me?" she offered. Her eyes were dull and sparked with hope for a temporary comfort with her half-demon friend.
"No," Doyle said, smiling gently.
"Of course not!" Angel added harshly. "Go to bed."
"Why not?" Willow pouted, running her hands up Doyle's chest and trying to keep her eyes fixed on his. "Don'tcha think I'm pretty?"
"You're beautiful, "Doyle said truthfully. "But I'm not in love with ya, and ya deserve no less than that."
"Angel doesn't think so," Willow continued in a childlike voice that reminded Angel of Drusilla. The hand holding the report started to quiver. "Angel thinks I'm not worth anything. Angel doesn't think I'm beautiful. Angel wouldn't care if you fucked me senseless right here in the office."
"Willow, come on, let's go downstairs," Doyle pleaded, seeing Angel's eyes turn from brown to black.
"Down to the tomb. My slave quarters. Little Orphan Willow on the floor every night. 'Please sir, might I have some more?'" She giggled and stumbled against Doyle as they moved towards the elevator. "Better off dead than down there in the vampire lair. Hey! I rhymed!"
Angel had had enough. He was out of his chair and across the room before either of them could drink, grabbed Willow away from Doyle, and shook her a little by accident trying to straighten her posture so he could give her a good lecture. Unfortunately for his timing, Willow vomited all over the front of his lightweight gray sweater and then again on his shoes as she slumped to the floor.
Angel cursed and shrugged out of his sweater and his shoes immediately. Willow groaned and retched again, this time into the waste paper basket Doyle held in front of her with one hand. He held her hair back with the other and crooned something in Gaelic until she'd emptied her stomach completely.
"I want to die!" she sobbed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"You'll be fine in the morning," Angel tried to explain. "Definite hangover, but it'll get better."
"Doyle, I want to die," she repeated clearly, ignoring Angel. "Please," she whispered. "Please, just let me go. Let me go and I promise I'll make it quick and easy and I won't feel anything. I won't feel anything."
Doyle's heart thundered in his chest as he swooped her up into his arms and strode past Angel to the door leading back out into the street.
"Where are you taking her?" Angel demanded. "She's drunk, Doyle, let her sleep it off."
"I'm taking her to St. Joe's Hospital. She's suicidal, which-"
"Doyle, she's tanked. You know how she just rambles on. It's no big deal."
Doyle paused in the doorway and glared at his friend, tears stinging his eyes. He didn't intend to fight Willow's war, but he could help out in a few minor skirmishes. Willow was passed out and drooling against his jacket. Not a pretty sight. Doyle wondered if that's how she felt on the inside, too.
"It's a very big deal, Angel. She wants to die and it's not because she's drunk. It's because she's supernaturally bonded to a man who showers her with contempt and it's sending her down a spiral she can't crawl out of. You're obviously not willing to change, so I'm taking her away so she can get some professional help. Unlike you, I actually care whether she lives or dies."
"I care," Angel protested as his heart sank and he reluctantly felt all the denial slip out of his heart. Time to face the music. And the orchestration was a very damaged, small, trembling girl who wanted to end her life because of him.
"No, y'don't. But unless y'want to live out a very painful eternity, I suggest y'start soon."
Doyle left Angel speechless and carefully carried Willow back out into the cool night air, cradling her tight against his chest for the mile walk down to the hospital, cursing himself for letting things go this far. Just because he didn't have a Vision did not excuse him from ignoring the screaming despair Willow suffered on a daily basis. He should have forced her to grieve, forced her to open up to him long before this.
He walked steadily towards the hospital and prayed there would be a caring soul inside the walls to help make Willow whole again.
Angel's footsteps sounded behind him and the vampire matched his stride, now clothed in a black shirt and different shoes, smelling like oranges for some reason.
"Guilt or concern, what's your motive?" Doyle asked harshly.
"Both," Angel answered honestly, his voice sounding vulnerable for the first time in a month. "I don't love her, Doyle. But she's my responsibility and I've been neglecting that."
"Willow is not a responsibility, she's an amazing woman y'don't even deserve to touch, let alone spend eternity with."
"Agreed," Angel said defeatedly, then followed Doyle into the emergency room where bright lights and a cacophony of sound swirled around them, taking Willow out of their care and placing her slumped body on a gurney. She lay there, passed out, hair sticking to her pale face while Angel succinctly answered all the questions and suffered the looks of disapproval before they took her away.