The Offering
By Esmeralda
Part SixteenThe three stood facing a door, in a gloomily lit corridor that carried the lingering odour of stale sweat, smoke, and urine. Doyle was visibly nervous. He rubbed his hands on his pants before knocking. "Listen, cos this is really important. No matter what goes down in here, don't say or do anything. Got that?" Neither Xander nor Wesley had the opportunity to answer - a sliding panel opened in the door and someone looked them up and down. Apparently they passed inspection as the panel snapped shut, and there was the sound of bolts been drawn back. The door opened and a horned demon led them inside. Xander struggled not to grimace as the stench of stale sweat became overpowering.
The shadowy interior was almost as dark and gloomy as the corridor. Patches of sunlight filtered through a pair of thin orange curtains, catching the dust that drifted around the room in lazy clouds. The occupants were an odd assembly. The horned demon appeared to be the doorman-come-bodyguard. Another demon with copper-coloured skin lounged carelessly in a tired looking chair. However, the battered sofa won points for housing the strangest pair. Xander's eyes were drawn to the bloated creature that took up a good three-quarter's of the available seating space; a swollen form with no discernable arms or legs, just a writhing mass of tentacles that sprouted from its quivering bulk.
Xander's stomach lurched as his eyes followed several of those wriggling appendices, and he realized that they were buried in the flesh of sofa's second occupant. They projected through the skin, leaving no outward sign of injury, squirming and rippling just beneath the surface. He turned a horrified gaze toward the recipient, who seemed supremely indifferent to his companion's invasive embrace. At a glance he appeared human; a naked young man, skin glistening with a faint oiled sheen. Xander's senses told him otherwise, and when the young man looked up from his GameBoy, his eyes glowed a fiery orange. A demon, or a half-blood.
It was the heap of shaking flesh that spoke. "Francis Allen, it's been a while. And you brought friends - how delightful. But you didn't bring that delicious Angel. I'm so disappointed." It's voice slithered like foul ooze.
Xander stared at his friend. Doyle's expression told its own story. These two had a history and it wasn't good.
Doyle took a step forward. "I need a favour."
"Of course. I didn't think this was a social call." The quivering bulk ran a tentacle down the chest of his companion - who grew heavy-lidded beneath the caress.
"Confusions orbs," said Doyle. "I need at least two of 'em."
"Confusion orbs? Costly merchandise." The creature's reptilian gaze slid over Doyle's body. "You're prepared to pay?"
"Would I be here if I wasn't?" There was a touch of sullen defiance to Doyle's reply.
"Excellent." It waved a tentacle toward the copper-skinned demon. "My associate Mr. Philps will bring you the orbs." The copper-skinned demon got up from its chair and slouched off through a doorway into another room. "Now," the creature continued. "Payment." A tentacle beckoned Doyle forward.
Xander's insides turned cold. He had a very bad feeling about this.
Orange-eyes put down his GameBoy and stood up. The tentacles attached to his body stretched, but remained in place. He held out his arms. Doyle took a halting step forward into the waiting embrace.
Xander would have gone forward too, but Wesley's hand on his arm stopped him.
"Don't," Wesley hissed out of the side of his mouth. "Remember what he said."
Xander remembered. Doyle had known this was going to happen. All they had to do was stand by and let it. Sickened, he watched Orange-eyes draw Doyle close. Xander flinched and turned away as Orange-eyes bestowed a demanding kiss upon his friend. From the corner of his eye he could see Doyle's hands, clenched into white knuckled fists; tremors ran up the half-demon's arms. It was Wesley's quiet exclamation of horror that pulled Xander's gaze back. He quickly saw what had induced the response. The tentacles were bulging and constricting in a grotesque fashion. Their owner seemed to have slipped into an ecstatic stupor.
Revulsion shivered down Xander's spine. Somehow that tentacled-thing was feeding on this. Like a bloated leech it was sucking up the pleasure the Orange-eyed demon was experiencing - glutting itself on it. Xander heard a sound very much like a low growl. It was coming from him. Wesley's hand tightened on his arm.
Then it was over. Doyle stumbled back, pale and shaking. Orange-eyes sank back down onto the sofa with a cat-like smile. The creature was still quivering, but the glazed, drugged look was fading from its reptilian eyes. It let out a rapturous moan that left Xander longing for a sword to shove through it. Mr. Philps handed Doyle a small drawstring bag, and the horned demon ushered them toward the door. The creature called out to them:
"A real pleasure doing business with you again, Francis Allen. Come back anytime."
The door slammed closed behind them as they stepped out into the corridor. Doyle moved away from it and turned to face them. He was shaking so badly he could barely get the words out. "This never happened." He looked at them both; eyes desperate. "I mean it. This never happened."
"Doyle-"
"Promise me."
Hurting deeply for his friend, Xander nodded. "All right."
Wesley gave his own quietly spoken assent; his gaze troubled.
Doyle led the way back down the corridor. Hands thrust into his pockets to hide the way they shook.
Part SeventeenThe Initiative - L.A. base. 12.00hrs.
"You claim these two exhibited atypical behaviour. In what way?""The capture report stated this one remained to defend the other; forfeiting its own chance to try and escape. You must agree that's hardly recognized behaviour for this species."
"If the report is accurate. Or it could be an anomaly."
"What do you recommend?"
"That we test this under more controlled conditions."
"Should we go ahead with the implantations?"
"No. I don't want anything that might adversely effect their behaviour."
"We'll need approval from Section 8 if we're going to keep them on base without implants."
"I'll get it. You mentioned that we already have a record for this one?"
"Initial scans indicated the presence of an implant; but it appears it may be malfunctioning."
"Doubtless those agents currently residing in the infirmary would concur."
"Agent Matlock is expected to survive his injuries."
"Hmm. Yes. Well, we'd better start with the testing immediately. I've no doubt once this report reaches Montgomery and Gilmore, they'll be clamouring for these two to be neutralized."
"How would you like to proceed?"
"We'll test this one first; see if we can duplicate its responses. Hostiles 38, 4X and 37G should meet requirements. Set it to run in test lab 7. I'll be along shortly."
************
Spike shook his head, trying to clear the heaviness from it. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, swaying woozily. He remained that way for several seconds, as whatever he'd been dosed with wore off. As his vision cleared he took a look at his surroundings. At first he assumed he was in a cavern. A closer look revealed that the rock had been hewn out to create a large artificial room. There were two metal doors set somewhat incongruously into opposing walls and the high ceiling consisted of glass panels and dazzling electrical lights.
Spike growled and got to his feet; testing his limbs for steadiness. The dizziness was all but gone. He tensed as he heard a noise and glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye. One of the doors was moving. He watched it rotate one hundred and eighty degrees. The reverse side had an added feature - Angel; fastened to its surface by metal bands around his ankles, wrists and throat. He was conscious and non too happy.
Spike forced himself to remain where he was, fighting the urge to go to his Sire's side. The lighting above was too bright to make out anything clearly but Spike was certain they were being watched. So he waited. He didn't have long. The second door rotated and three demons sprang into the room. They were Rakii. Roughly human in size, with leathery grey skin, pale yellow eyes, impressive claws and teeth and an intense hatred of vampires. Wonderful.
They spread out, trying encircle him. Spike slipped into his game face and took a step back. Two rushed forward, slashing at him with their claws. Spike spun out of the way, kicking one as its momentum carried it past him. It went down, sliding across the rough stone floor. The second Rakii resumed its attack. Spike received a slash to his arm. He hissed and leapt back to avoid a second stroke that would have disemboweled him.
"Down!" Angel shouted.
Spike obeyed without hesitation. He dropped and the third Rakii's claws sliced harmlessly through the air above his head. He reached up - grabbing one of its arms and throwing it. It landed heavily on its back. Spike hurled himself forward. Pinning it with a knee he grabbed its head and twisted. One down-
"Back!"
-Two to go. Spike pulled back sharply as the second Rakii came at him. He felt the rush of air against his skin as its claws raked past his face. Spike got to his feet; turning toward it. As he did, something else came to mind - where the fuck was the other one? He darted a quick glance toward his Sire and stiffened in alarm. The last Rakii was closing in on Angel; claws raised and ready to strike. Angel shifted into his own demonic aspect, baring his fangs. It paused; Rakii weren't too bright and clearly this one didn't appreciate that Angel was helpless. Or perhaps it was demonstrating better judgement than was common for its kind in anticipating a trap. Whatever the reason, it was slow to move in and finish things.
Which was fortunate, as Spike still had his own Rakii to contend with. When he tried moving closer to Angel it blocked his path and charged at him. Spike executed a neat sidestep manoeuvre - sticking out his arm and knocking the Rakii off its feet. He tried to repeat his earlier success with the neck snap but this one proved wilier. It avoided being pinned, rolling out of his reach and springing back to its feet. Spike growled. He'd had enough. He was keen to get to Angel before the other Rakii spilled his Sire's innards across the room. As he took another step he almost stumbled. It was the dead Rakii. Spike cursed and kicked at it savagely.
There followed a brief but thoughtful pause. A nasty grin spread over Spike's face. He put his boot on the dead creature's shoulder to secure it. Then he took a firm hold of one of its arms - pulling and twisting. There was a horrible sucking, tearing sound as its arm came away from its body. Spike turned it so that he held it near the bleeding stump. He eyed the razor sharp claws at the other end, ignoring the blood that ran sluggishly onto his fingers. So it wasn't the tidiest of weapons. It was better than nothing. He whirled it around. The Rakii threatening him withdrew, confused.
The one threatening Angel was less fortunate. Spike returned to his Sire, wielding his make shift weapon with a flourish. He caught the creature across its face and then - as its hands came up to belatedly shield itself - he swung it back across the Rakii's throat. A fountain of blood cascaded into the air as it toppled backward. Spike crowed with victorious delight, wiping his face to clear the blood spatters from it. He licked the back of his hand, savouring the taste of the hot viscous fluid. Not bad for demon brew.
It was now one-on-one and the remaining Rakii looked a lot less cocky. Spike tossed the limb from hand to hand with the casual air of one who knows he's already won and is simply drawing out the inevitable conclusion. The Rakii suddenly decided it didn't want to play anymore and it turned and ran in the direction of the other door. Spike dropped his 'weapon' and ran after it - catching it before it had got halfway. Mindful of its flailing claws, he sank his teeth deep into its neck, tearing out its throat and noisily guzzling the blood. He dropped the drained corpse and lifted his face to the glass roof, baring bloodied fangs at the unseen watchers.
A high-pitched whining sound made him flinch. The sound got steadily louder and he put his hands over his ears. It continued to increase in intensity until he stumbled and slowly sank to his knees. He was vaguely aware of Angel writhing in similar distress. Then he felt a stabbing pain in the back of his neck - he put his hand up to feel and touched the outline of a dart. That was all he knew as darkness closed in around him and he embraced the welcoming silence.
**********
"What do you think? Surely you agree that this warrants further study?"
"It is quite interesting, certainly. However, it's my opinion that this scenario failed to meet the necessary criteria. I can't formulate any conclusions from this evidence. The creature could simply have been defending itself. The fact that in doing so it aided the other one could merely be coincidence."
"Perhaps if we gave it a chance to run or remain and defend the other?"
"Yes, yes. That would yield much better results."
"Hostile 24 might present a suitable test subject."
"Hostile 24? Hmm, yes. I could see how that might work."
"I'd need a P28/35 to have it released into our authority."
"Bring me the paperwork and I'll obtain the necessary signatures."
"Should I set up the rest as before?"
"No. I think we'll try a little reverse stratagem. Switch the test subjects."
"Shouldn't we try to duplicate this first, with the new restrictions in place?"
"No. We've very little time to run with this. I want to see if there's any evidence for this being mutual. Run it in Lab 7 again."
**********
Angel groggily opened his eyes. He shut them as the bright lights high above his head glared painfully. He rolled over onto his side and slowly raised himself into a sitting position. With his head down, he reopened his eyes - blinking to try and banish the fluttering dark spots from his vision. As his sight cleared he looked around him, quickly recognizing the cave from his last period of lucidity. So where was Spike? He glanced at the metal doors. One of them began to rotate and Angel wasn't particularly surprised to see his Childe manacled to the reverse side. He stood up and kept his eye on the other door as he walked over. "You all right?"
"Peachy," Spike muttered.
Angel had opened his mouth to say something else when he stopped and sniffed the air. He frowned. "What's that smell?" Spike scowled. Angel leaned in close and sniffed his Childe. He drew back, nose wrinkling. "Is that from the Rakii?"
Spike tried to shake his head but the collar pinning his neck limited his movements. "No. The bastards have sprayed summat on me."
Angel's frown deepened. "You're sure?"
"Yes I'm fuckin' sure. Fuck, even the sewers don't stink like this."
Angel gingerly sniffed Spike again. "It smells like-"
"-I know what it smells like," Spike snapped. He caught a whiff of himself and grimaced. "Bloody hell. It's worse than that flamin' place Dru had us in once. Belonged to some dotty old cow - she had fuckin' cats everywhere. Place stank like a Kreewka's armpit."
"Why would they-?" Angel didn't finish. The whirr of machinery made him pause. Something above caught his eye and he looked up. A large metal crate was being lowered into the cavern. The metal ropes supporting it whined and creaked in protest as the cage's occupant threw itself against the walls of its prison growling and snarling. A howl rang out. Angel shared an alarmed look with his Childe. They both recognized that sound. There was a loud metallic clang as the cage reached the cavern floor. It vibrated with the energy unleashed by its inhabitant. Another howl rang out.
Spike tested the strength of his manacles. Angel went to assist but it was hopeless. They'd been built to resist the strength of creatures more powerful than vampires. They heard the whirring and clanking of additional mechanics as the remaining cavern door rotated - this time only partially - leaving a narrow gap through into what appeared to be a small, empty chamber. Then two cables began to raise the cage door. The creature inside howled and hurled itself at the door, sensing its freedom was close at hand.
Spike stared first at the cage and then at the exit way from the cavern. He frowned. "They're givin' you a way out," he muttered. He looked back at the cage just as a scaly snout and one huge clawed paw appeared. "Run," he told Angel urgently. Angel had already reached the same conclusion and had decided he wasn't going anywhere. Spike wasn't impressed. "Listen to me, you stupid bugger. They've givin' you a way out. I reckon whatever this is on me it's gonna be like catnip to our friend in there. So you'd best leg it while you can." Angel ignored him.
Spike banged his head against the metal door in frustration. The cage door was halfway open. "Are you fuckin' stupid? They want you to do this. You're givin' 'em what they want." Angel didn't move or even look at him, so Spike tried another tack. "I'm not one of your fuckin' charity cases. I don't need you to save my arse."
This time Angel looked - very pointedly at the manacles securing Spike. Underlining the fact that Spike most definitely did need his arse saving."Can't you give your mouth a rest? I'm trying to think of something."
"Think? One thing you're not bleedin' doin', mate - is thinkin'-"
"Will? - Shut up."
The cage door was three quarters open - sufficient to release its occupant. The Locksaw demon emerged, strings of saliva dripping from its massive jaws. It turned amber-red eyes toward the two vampires.
"We're fucked," said Spike.
Angel wasn't ready to be quite so fatalistic. Though he had to admit, he didn't care for the odds. Two vampires against one Locksaw equated risky but realizable. One vampire set against one Locksaw was more along the lines of certifiably suicidal. The creature swished its tail. Scales rattled as it padded forward, sniffing the air. Its ears pricked and it stopped, inhaling deeply. Homing in on a scent that awakened its interest - Spike. Angel stared helplessly at his Childe.
Spike's features shimmered - smooth human planes evolving into vampiric ridges and golden eyes. "What's the matter Fido? Can't the poor fluffy puppy catch his own dinner any more? Needs the humans to do it for him." Spike snarled and bared his fangs. "You want a piece? Come and get me you ugly fucker." Whether the Locksaw actually understood or not was debatable. Still, Spike had barely finished speaking when it growled and sprang. Shark-like teeth set to tear into his flesh.
It never made it. Like a cartoon character it stopped inches from Spike's face and was abruptly yanked back. Spike stared past the foaming jaws to look at Angel -who was holding onto the beast's thrashing tail. Defiant once more, despite concern for his Sire, Spike let out a whoop. "Fuckin' mutt. Feed it its balls."
Angel spoke slowly through gritted teeth, as he danced out of the way of the Locksaw's snapping jaws. "Spike, shut up. You're not helping." Spike chose to ignore him, throwing out taunts while Angel hung on grimly. The Locksaw grew steadily more enraged. "Spike, shut up. You're annoying it!" Angel hissed.
Spike chuckled throatily. "I think you yankin' on its tail is doin' that, mate."
"You're annoying me!"
"I'm just offering some encouragement."
"I could let go."
Spike shut up.
Angel felt like every bone in his body had been rattled and jarred out of position. His jaw ached from clenching it. He held onto the Locksaw's tail, because he had no idea what to do if he let go. The Locksaw had only two vulnerable spots - its eyes and its belly. Angel had no weapon and didn't fancy his chances with his bare hands. Currently, his only hope was that it would tire before he did. However, that was a remote hope. Locksaw were tireless and fearless. The size of a large tiger, their bodies were covered with impenetrable scales, save for their bellies. Their jaws were capable of grinding bones to powder and their teeth could slice through flesh and cartilage like it was melted ice cream.
This Locksaw decided to adopt a new tactic; trying to slam Angel against the walls of the cavern in an attempt to shake him loose. Angel struggled to retain his grip and avoid being smashed against the rough surface. Finally, both his strength and his luck failed him. The Locksaw slammed its hindquarters against the rocky wall and a dazed Angel was forced to let go. The Locksaw spun around to face its tormentor.
"Oi! Mutt, over 'ere. You forgettin' something?" The Locksaw swung its great head around toward Spike. "That's it, nice doggy. Come and get your nummytreat," Spike coaxed. Angel struggled to his feet as Spike continued to flaunt his own distinctive brand of heroism. "Come on. There's a good little fucker. Come and have a nibble of ol' Spike. You don't want to be munchin' on that pouf."
The Locksaw seemed almost hypnotized by Spike's low, rough voice. It padded toward the vampire, the sound of its claws a soft snick, snick upon the stony floor. In the same low soothing tone, Spike called out to Angel: "Not tryin' to rush you or anything, Peaches. But either get off your arse and do something, or fuck off."
Angel realised Spike was trying to spare him the sight of his favoured Childe being torn to pieces. He wasn't about to leave Spike to face his fate alone. Shaking his head to clear the dizziness, Angel threw himself forward, launching himself up onto the Locksaw's back. It let out an enraged bellow and bucked like a rodeo steer. Angel tried to dig his fingers in under the scales, clinging on as it tried to buck him off. His options were limited. He couldn't hope to break its back or its neck - the massive musculature made that impossible. Instead he went for a weak spot with the only weapon he had available to him - his fangs. He forced himself not to recoil as his teeth sank through the eye membrane into the gelatinous mass beneath.
The Locksaw howled in agony and tried to swat at him with its paw, furiously shaking its head. Angel bit down deeper, ripping the membrane. His mouth filled with sticky fluid. Gagging, he finally pulled back and then let go and tried to leap clear. He almost made it. Half blinded and roaring with pain, the Locksaw swung a paw toward him. The pad of the paw failed to connect and Angel avoided a blow that would have snapped his spine. However, the claws raked across his back, slicing through leather, cloth and skin. Bleeding heavily, Angel swayed as he got back to his feet.
"Move!"
Spike's shout alerted Angel to the oncoming danger, but weakened by his injuries, he was too slow to react. The Locksaw leapt, knocking him down and trapping him beneath the bulk of its body. All Angel could do was try and block the snapping, snarling jaws.
Spike howled and banged his head against the metal door, straining against the manacles to reach his Sire. To his amazement they fell open and he lurched forward. He didn't waste time wondering about the whys or wherefores. Racing to the struggling combatants, Spike jumped up onto its back and attempted to duplicate Angel's method of attack. This time was a little trickier - the creature was thrashing its head about and it wasn't eager to let anyone else near to its remaining eye. However, Spike had an added incentive in that he wanted to incapacitate it before it succeeded in tearing off his Sire's head, reducing another member of the order of Aurelius to ashes.
Spike attacked the beast with enthusiastic savagery. Using teeth and fingers. Biting, jabbing and prising at its one good eye. Blood and gore filled his mouth as the delicate eye membrane gave way. Spike didn't stop; he dug his fingers in deeper, clawing at the socket flesh. The Locksaw abandoned its assault on Angel to rid itself of this new torment. It ran at the cavern walls; half crazed with pain. Spike used all of his strength to thrust his fingers past the socket - driving splinters of bone into the Locksaw's brain. It finally shook him clear, but the damage was done. Blinded and bloody, the beast staggered until finally it collapsed. Its gurgling, rattling breaths filled the cavern.
Spike ignored the dying creature to kneel beside his Sire. The beast's claws had rendered deep gashes across Angel's torso. A rapidly spreading pool of blood had formed around his body, glistening darkly on the rocky ground. The little colour Angel possessed seeping away with it. Stark white bone was visible within the worst of the gashes. Spike made a distressed sound in the back of his throat. Hunched protectively over his Sire, he turned baleful yellow eyes upon their audience and the whine changed to a steady rumbling growl.
Angel regarded his Childe with unblinking golden orbs. Darkness beckoned, creeping around the edges of his vision as the blood drained from his body. He needed more. It was his place to demand it, but he wouldn't - couldn't. He didn't have to. Spike impatiently pushed his sleeve up and tore into his arm, biting deep to open the vein. He pressed the bloody limb against Angel's lips and Angel drank deeply. As the desperate hunger receded to a sullen thirst, Angel savoured the taste of his Childe: the blood sweet and dark with age and memories.
His demon retreated as his hunger grew less needy and he was able to push Spike's arm away before he drew too much. Too weak to move Angel could only rage in impotent fury as their unseen captors fired the tiny darts that sent them tumbling back into drugged slumber.
Part EighteenDoyle had finally got the tremors under control. He was currently wearing his most earnest and sincere expression - the one that had never worked with Angel - as he finished finalizing a deal with Alfie. "I promise we'll get it back to you, man."
"Not a scratch. I want your word."
"You've got it."
A reluctant Alfie handed over the keys and Doyle wheeled the motorcycle away. He headed back to Wesley and Xander.
Wesley eyed the machine doubtfully. "Is that roadworthy?"
"If you mean does it have all the right paperwork? Probably not. If you mean does it run? Then, yeah - it'll get you from A to B." He held out the keys. "Just try not to trash it, okay?"
"How would anybody know?" Wesley muttered as he took them. The motorcycle looked like the survivor of an extreme off-road race. He'd seen happier looking vehicles being butchered in scrap yards.
"Believe me. Alfie would know. This baby's his pride an' joy."
"What does he want if we don't get it back to him?" There was a slight edge to Xander's voice.
"Nothing," said Doyle flatly. "Alfie owes me this one." Xander's gaze remained troubled. Doyle knew the younger man was upset. Part of him wished he'd gone through with his earlier idea to visit Lezzam alone, but he didn't trust that tentacled piece of slime and he'd wanted Xander and Wesley with him for backup. He couldn't deal with Xander's confusion right now. He was still trying to sort it all out in his own head. He had made an oath long ago - to the effect that no matter how desperate things got, he'd never go back to Lezzam. Shows how wrong a guy could be. Now all he had to do was live with it and pray that Angel never found out.
Time to put the plan into action. The odds were good that the Initiative had Wesley's apartment under surveillance. In theory, all Doyle had to do was break in and nose around and someone should be along to pick him up. Wesley and Xander would be ready to follow on Alfie's motorcycle. The Confusion orbs had been configured for humans. The person holding an orb was immune to its mind-altering effects. If Wesley and Xander retained one each, they would be fine. As a half-demon, Doyle wouldn't be affected (he wasn't all that certain Xander would be, but refrained from saying anything to that effect in front of Wesley.).
Wesley continued to voice his objections. "All I'm saying is we're possibly being a little hasty. We have no real evidence that the Initiative have Angel and Spike. If it should turn out they haven't, all this venture will achieve is your own capture." They were stood in an alleyway more or less opposite his apartment building.
"I don't know how to explain it to you," said Doyle. "I wouldn't know where to start. All I know is the Initiative have them. An' we don't have a whole lotta time to get them back."
"What you're saying doesn't make any sense," said Wesley.
"That's because you're thinking like a human," said Xander. "Angel told me once that none of this makes sense if you go at it thinking like Joe-normal. My advice is don't even try." He slipped a knife sheaf into his boot and stood up. "Besides, no one's forcing you to come along."
"Maybe not," Wesley conceded. "However, I think you'll find me a useful addition to the team." He held out his hand. In his palm was a small capsule.
Doyle peered at it. "What is it?"
"A homing transmitter," said Wesley a trifle smugly.
"Is it safe?"
"Perfectly. It was in fact designed for this very purpose: to enable someone in the field to be tracked without the need to actually keep pace with them."
"By someone - you mean a Slayer?" Xander guessed. Wesley's expression answered for him. "Why, Wesley. You dark horse you." A smirking Xander elucidated for Doyle's benefit. "Wesley swiped this from his Watcher buddies." Xander attempted an upper class English accent. "Isn't that right, Wesley old boy?"
"I worked on it. I was integral in developing some of its key functions," Wesley defended. "Once could argue it was as much my property as it was theirs."
"Except it wasn't," said Xander, displaying Spike-like satisfaction in the face of Wesley's misdemeanor. "So what other goodies have you got stashed in there?" He tried to look inside the rucksack.
Wesley hugged it protectively to his chest. "That's really none of your business. This homing device is a state of the art prototype encompassing extremely advanced technology. Perhaps you should be more grateful." (He didn't add that in the absence of an accommodating Slayer, the project had eventually been abandoned.)
"I'll be grateful if it works," said Xander darkly.
"Hey, fellas. Break it up, yeah? We don't have time for this stuff." Doyle accepted the capsule from Wesley. "So do I…er…?" He mimed swallowing it.
"Yes."
"It's not radioactive or anything, is it?" Doyle asked a trifle worriedly. "Only I'm not exactly Miss Indestructible Slayer material."
"It's been tested on several normal human subjects, including myself," said Wesley.
Doyle eyed the device and gave Wesley a look from underneath his eyebrows.
"Not that particular one of course," said Wesley hurriedly, a faint blush colouring his cheeks.
Doyle shrugged and swallowed it; grimacing as it went down. "So how does this thing work exactly?"
Wesley knelt and began rifling through his rucksack. "It gives out a signal on a specific wavelength. I can pick it up on-" There was a significant pause as the search increased in intensity. Wesley gave a relieved sigh as his fingers obviously closed around something and he withdrew a silver-grey palm pilot with a triumphant smile. "-This." He stood up. "We will of course try to maintain visual contact at all times, but should something unforeseen occur and we lose sight of you, this will enable us to discover your location."
"Time to go then," said Doyle. He shook a surprised Wesley's hand. "Watch your back. These guys aren't playin' games." Green eyes carried another message as they flitted briefly toward Xander - take care of the kid. Wesley nodded in silent acknowledgement. Doyle and Xander walked a few steps away to say their own goodbyes. Doyle could almost feel Wesley's startled reaction as Xander pulled him close for a deep, desperate kiss. The first they'd shared since that strange night of alcohol and grief.
Doyle let Xander control the kiss, losing himself in half forgotten sweetness. The honeyed warmth of Xander's lips and tongue banished any lingering memory of the orange-eyed demon and Doyle drew comfort from the blood heat and bruising hunger. But when the kiss ended he was aching and confused - part of him desperate for the cool, familiar touch of his lover. Another part wanting nothing more than to burrow back into Xander's embrace. He managed a shaky smile. "Don't lose me, yeah?" The tone was forcibly light. Doyle had to swallow against the lump of panic in his throat.
"I won't," Xander vowed, with all the solemn certainty of youth.
"Then wish me luck," said Doyle. "Cos I'm done here." He walked away quickly, battling the urge to look back. He could feel Xander's eyes on him as he crossed the street and entered Wesley's apartment block. His palms were sweating by the time he reached the fourth floor. Though perversely his mouth felt dry as he fitted the key into the lock. He shifted into his demonic aspect as he opened the door and slipped inside. The place was a mess. Clearly these guys didn't bother cleaning up after themselves. Books and papers were scattered about the room. Drawers and shelves had been ransacked; their carefully stored contents spewed carelessly across the floor. Even the cupboards in the tiny kitchenette area had been emptied.
Doyle shook his head in sympathy. His old place had been turned over so many times he'd eventually given up trying to put the resulting devastation into any kind of order. However, he still remembered how it felt to know that someone had been there. Looking. Touching. He was certain that he'd ever really slept until he moved in with Angel. He wondered if Wesley would want to come back here. Stepping over a broken statuette, Doyle thought about how he'd denied that he was dangling himself on a piece of string with this plan. "So how come I feel like a worm on a hook," he muttered.
He continued to pace around the room, avoiding the disorderly clutter as best he could. Eventually, he began gathering up the books to put back on the shelves. He put the first few away; then stopped in the process of gathering more. He'd definitely heard something. "Enter the big fuckin' fish, stage left." The words had barely left his lips when the door was kicked open. But Doyle was already heading toward the window, arms raised to protect his face he threw himself through it - feeling the biting sting of shards of glass against his skin. He had to twist his neck as he fell. No easy feat. Somehow he accomplished it before he landed in what he hoped was a convincing tangle of limbs.
As his heart and his breathing slowed to a near standstill, awareness dimmed. Doyle was vaguely aware of muted voices and shadowy forms. Something hard - possibly a gun muzzle - poked him in the chest. Then a boot nudged his side. Finally, fingers touched his skin, searching for any sign of life. They seemed to be satisfied that he was dead. The plan was working. Any relief Doyle may have felt was cruelly short lived. Apparently, they'd failed to take into account that these guys were ultra cautious. Metal cuffs were snapped shut around his wrists before he was zipped away in a body bag.
Doyle couldn't see what happened next - an unmarked van was backed into the alley. He was fighting panic as they lifted him up and threw him roughly inside. This was not how the plan was supposed to go.
Part NineteenWesley and Xander watched the van as it reversed slowly into the alleyway. The men who got out and moved around it were dressed in plain blue coveralls - they looked like your average worker types to anyone who didn't know better. Xander took one look at the military styled haircuts; the way these guys filled out their coveralls and the way they scanned the street and knew. "That's them."
"Are you sure?" Wesley looked at the palm pilot. "Doyle isn't moving."
"He will be. They're heading out. Let's get this baby on the road." Xander nudged Wesley impatiently.
Muttering, the ex-Watcher started the bike. They shared a wary look as it literally exploded into life - a plume of blue-black smoke billowing from the exhaust pipe. When the expected fireball didn't follow, Wesley handed the palm pilot back to Xander; raising his voice over the noise of the engine.
"You'll have to keep a check on this."Xander took the device unhappily. Techno-guy he wasn't. Still, it looked fairly simple and if Wesley had been involved in its creation how complicated could it be?
"Fine. Let's go."They pulled out after the van. At first they trailed it from a distance of only one or two vehicles but they had to pull further back as it left the main city streets and the roads became quieter. Xander became anxious when they lost sight of it around a turn. He shouted at Wesley. "You're gonna lose them. Go faster." Wesley shook his head but whatever he said was lost over the roar of the engine and the wind. Xander could only hold on and hope that Wesley knew what he was doing. Not a very encouraging thought considering past history. He juggled the palm pilot with one hand. The signal pulsed clear and strong - which meant they were going in the right direction. Right?
Further along the coast they came to a stop. The van was entering what looked like a large estate, surrounded by a high wall. The property had electronic gates with cameras and a guard hut. The van passed through and the gates swung shut behind it. Xander and Wesley watched it wind its way up the drive and out of sight - the walls and the extensive greenery concealed the building itself.
Wesley turned off the engine and got off the bike. Xander followed suit. They wheeled it into a ditch and crouched down beside it - watching the estate "Well, what now?" Wesley asked. "I really don't see how this plan is going to work."
"Colour me surprised," Xander muttered.
"What?"
"Confusion orbs, remember?" Xander drew out the egg-sized orb.
"Of course I remember," Wesley huffed crossly. "I also happen to know that they only effect people in the immediate vicinity. The best we can hope for is that they will confuse any one we encounter on a one-to-one basis. Even then there's no guarantee. Some people are naturally resistant."
"Are you always this much fun to have around? Only if I'd known I'd have looked you up earlier."
"I don't know," Wesley sniped back. "Are you always this flippant? Only it seems to me that you're treating this all very haphazardly. And personally I value my life a little too much to entertain a suicide mission."
Xander's mouth twisted into a decidedly unpleasant smile. He leaned in close, enjoying the way a ruffled Wesley drew away from him. He could practically taste the other man's emotions - a heady combination of fear and uncertainty. "You wanted in. So you're in. You pull out now and I guarantee this will be a suicide mission."
"Are you threatening me?" The slight quiver in his voice spoiled Wesley's outraged act.
"What do you think?" Xander threw in his best unbalanced look for good measure. It worked. Wesley balked and backed down.
"Very well. For the moment you may count me in. How do you suggest we proceed?"
"We need to make ourselves a little less conspicuous," said Xander thoughtfully.
"With what? Twigs? Leaves? Camouflage mud perhaps?"
"Uniforms," said Xander.
"Uni-?" Wesley stopped and followed Xander's gaze. "No, absolutely not. I refuse to take a human life in aid of a vampire. Besides which, these men are operating under military conditions. They must have to report in at regular intervals."
"So we move quick and make sure they're not found so they can't give the game away."
Wesley grabbed Xander's arm as the young man made to move off. "Wait. Think what you're doing. This is murder."
"No," said Xander patiently. "This is knocking a guy over the head, tying him up and stashing him some place."
The truth finally dawned and Wesley had the good grace to look embarrassed by his assumption. "Oh. I see. I thought - Well, never mind," he finished quickly.
Xander simply shook his head. "Come on, Jiminy. If it makes you feel better, while I'm giving my knuckles a workout, you can tell me what a baad boy I'm being." He grinned wickedly. Wesley frowned but followed as they crept along, staying low. Away from the front gate they scrambled out of the ditch and hurried to duck down beside the wall. There were cameras situated at intervals along it; Xander stared at them in frustration.
Wesley stared too, but his gaze was more thoughtful. He suddenly clutched Xander's arm excitedly.
Xander glared. "What?" he hissed.
"There's a blind spot," Wesley whispered. "See."
Xander didn't. "Where?"
"There." Wesley pointed to a section of the wall that curved round - following the natural lie of the land. "That point, right on the curve. The positioning of those two cameras is completely wrong. They can't possibly cover that point."
Xander was doubtful - these guys were pros - he was also desperate. "Okay. Then that's where we go over." Wesley was still holding onto his arm.
"When I say they can't possibly - I could be wrong. Without the proper equipment I can only give you a best guess. If that is a blind spot it will be a very narrow range."
"Then we'll stick to it very narrowly," said Xander. "And sneak over it real quick."
Wesley's eyebrows crept up toward his hairline. "This wall is probably close to eight feet. I think that scrambling over it in broad daylight is going to attract a certain level of unwanted attention."
Xander smiled slyly. "Stick with me, junior G-man. I promise there'll be no scrambling of any kind. Now - show me the exact spot." A doubtful Wesley did. They sidled along, backs against the wall until they reached it. Xander made a few quick calculations. This was fairly basic stuff but a lot was riding on it. If he screwed up here he foresaw an extended stay in a military prison with over friendly bunkmates, while Angel, Spike and Doyle faired even worse. They were depending on him - Xander LaVelle Harris - not to follow the habit of a lifetime by messing up.
No. That was the old Xander Harris - bringer of donuts; demon snuggle-monkey; sex-toy for psycho-Slayers everywhere (and wasn't he glad that Angel had kept that little gem to himself.); zombie chauffeur; and convenient sharpening post for the cutting tongue of Cordelia Chase. The one who scored full marks for trying but overall was relegated to the ranks of lame underachiever. He wasn't that guy any more. The trouble was convincing his much-dented psyche.
Xander set his jaw - and set his sights firmly upward. He could do this. Didn't he carry the brand of Spike's ownership in his blood? Spike wasn't the sort to bind himself to a total no-hoper. Well, okay, there was Drusilla, but deranged dead-girl didn't count. He just had to allow for the additional encumbrance of six feet two of uncooperative Englishman. "Listen," he whispered. "I need you with me on this. I can get us over this lickety-split but you have to trust me to do it."
Wesley looked up and then looked at Xander. "You can get us both over? Without being seen?"
There was absolutely no hesitation to Xander's reply. "Yes."
Wesley removed his glasses and slipped them into his top pocket, fastening the button down to secure them. "Do it."
"Really?" Xander hadn't expected Wesley to agree quite so readily and couldn't quite contain his surprise, which seemed to irk Wesley.
"Yes."
Xander took a step away from the wall and leapt upward. He made the jump easily. He crouched on top, balancing on the balls of his feet. Turning to face Wesley, he reached down. "Come on," he hissed urgently. Wesley made a grab for his hand. Xander caught hold of Wesley's wrist, watching the other man's eyes widen in as he simply hoisted him up. As soon as Wesley was level with him, Xander dropped down - backwards - tugging the startled ex-Watcher over the wall and down with him. Xander landed neatly, Wesley considerably less so. "You all right?" Xander whispered.
Wesley nodded. His expression still stunned. Fortunately, he seemed to appreciate that now was not the time for questions and when Xander pulled him toward the cover of the undergrowth he came without complaint. They didn't have long to wait for a convenient clothes donor. After what was probably less than ten minutes a young man in military garb walked by. He was alone but armed. Xander didn't have time to weigh up the wisdom of tackling him. As it turned out, it wasn't much of a fight. Xander had all the advantages of surprise, speed and strength. His opponent's training only drew out the result by a couple of seconds. Xander dragged the unconscious body into the undergrowth.
"Strip him," he ordered an astonished Wesley. "And put on his stuff. Take his guns and his radio too. I don't suppose you've got anything in that handy rucksack to tie him up with. Wesley nodded mutely. "Good. Then bind and gag him. Make sure you do it nice and tight. I'm gonna find me something to wear." He ducked out again. Keeping close to the trees and bushes as he looked for another hapless volunteer. The second guy faired a little better - he wasn't taken quite so completely by surprise - and he got in a few punches before Xander took a tip from Doyle and Spike and head butted him into la-la land.
Xander used his belt to bind the man's hands and tore up his shirt to gag him with. That left the man's legs. Xander knew what Spike would do. Spike would simply break them but he wasn't Spike. Then again, he couldn't afford for the guy to wake up and go running for help. What if he just broke one of them? Xander ran a hand through his hair. His gaze happened to fall on the tree behind the unconscious body. A couple of minutes later and his belt had been refastened to tie the man's hands together and to the tree. It might not hold him forever but he'd be missed sooner than later anyway. Xander was all for getting in and out fast.
He jogged back to find Wesley - narrowly avoiding running into a few more goons on route. The ex-Watcher was waiting anxiously, dressed like Xander in fatigues and fiddling with his glasses. "Can you see without them?" Xander asked.
"Well, yes, but-"
"Then leave them off for now. I don't think these guys go for the Librarian look."
Wesley eyed the neatly bound body by his feet. "You're probably right." He placed the glasses in his rucksack, and then hesitated. "Should I perhaps leave this? I do have some things in it that might come in useful-"
Xander cut him off. "-Bring it. We're not gonna be that convincing anyhow. I think we should aim for quick in - quick out."
"I agree," said Wesley softly. "But if the grounds are any indication this property is probably a considerable size. Locating the others may not be easy."
Xander held up the palm pilot. "We can find Doyle. He'll find Angel. I can find Spike. Now let's go." He left Wesley no chance to object, moving off immediately. He heard sounds to indicate that Wesley was following. The crackle of twigs and leaves. Rapid, nervous breath falls. If he concentrated hard enough he thought he could hear the other man's heart beating. Xander suddenly realized that it didn't strike him as remotely weird that he could recognize Wesley's scent.
Now if he could just shake off the conditioning of a lifetime - not to mention a major case of bad karma - in order to affect a dramatic rescue. Time to put all those useful things Spike had been teaching him into practice. //I won't let you down.// He swore silently. //Just hang on, Spike. Please hang on.//
Part TwentyDoyle waited until he was certain he was alone before stirring from his death-like state. As his heart rate increased, so did his breathing, and full awareness followed. He struggled with his bound wrists to bring his hands up. It took several attempts before he was able to undo the fastening on the body bag. He took a gasp of air as his head finally poked free but immediately tensed in shock as he realized he was in some kind of container. He slipped back into demon form, enabling him to see where, or rather in what, he had been entombed.
With a sickening rush of clarity, Doyle realized he had been shut inside a morgue drawer. There was scarcely any room to maneuver and he had to wriggle about to get free of the body bag. He couldn't reach the door with his hands but a few tentative taps with his foot confirmed that it was very firmly shut, perhaps even locked. Who locked up a dead body? Doyle brought his hands up to his face and eyed the manacles ruefully - obviously the same guys who put cuffs on them. No amount of demonic strength or Irish cursing would budge the manacles, so Doyle returned his attention to the way out.
Was there someone on the other side of that door? He couldn't sense anyone but the metal appeared to be fairly solid and his senses only went so far. However, he really didn't have a lot of choice unless he wanted to wait around for the men in white coats to arrive and decide he wasn't quite dead enough yet. Doyle pulled his legs up as much as he could and kicked down hard. He stopped and listened carefully - nothing. Doyle released the breath he'd been holding and kicked again and again. The door began to buckle, unable to withstand the attentions of a seriously annoyed half-demon.
A lock and a hinge gave way almost simultaneously and the door flew open with an alarming amount of noise. Doyle slid out on the slab. He was three drawers from the floor and jumped down easily. Thankfully, he was alone. He was also fully clothed for which he gave an additional hallelujah. An ID tag had been fastened to his body bag, which read - Unknown Hostile 114/GH. Doyle tried to tidy it all away as best he could. Then he took a look around. It was your basic morgue set up: a white room with lots of drawers and one door in and out. He tried the door; it wasn't locked. Surprised, but grateful, Doyle opened it and peered out.
Beyond the door was a laboratory, also deserted. There were rows of microscopes, test tubes, petri dishes and a lot of other paraphernalia he didn't recognize. Where was everyone - at lunch? He made his way across the room. A scalpel caught his eye and after a moments hesitation he pocketed it. With luck they wouldn't notice it was missing, and if they did it would probably come low down their list of priorities once they discovered they had an absentee corpse. He hunted about for anything that might break the manacles but came up empty
There were some white lab coats hanging up by the exit. Doyle took one and draped it over his bound wrists, trying to quash a shiver of revulsion. He really didn't want to think about the kind of guy who owned this or what they'd done whilst wearing it. He shifted back into his human aspect and left the lab. Which is where his luck ran out. Clearly, not everyone was at lunch. The corridor - though not exactly bustling - had a steady traffic of soldiers and science types. Doyle's sharp eyes quickly noted the security cameras and he straightened up, attempting to wipe the hunted look off his face. Which way? He couldn't concentrate to get a fix on Angel. Two trolleys passed him by: Doyle took one look at the demons strapped to them and ducked back inside the lab. He dropped the coat and put his hands up to his face. What was he doing? He was working without a clue here. Who had he been trying to kid with this dumb plan? He wasn't the kind of guy who led from the front and saved the day. Oh, God, Angel. He had to find Angel. How?
The Bond had been silent since Angel's disappearance. Doyle thought he'd felt the occasional frisson of something but when he reached out it slipped away, as elusive as smoke. Closer proximately to Angel should - in theory - improve his ability to manipulate the Bond. Doyle lowered his hands and closed his eyes, face set and determined. He stopped trying to coax the Bond into compliance and set about bullying it into obedience. If Angel was conscious, he was shutting Doyle out. The only way for Doyle to trace him was to force the Bond to open up. He gave it everything he had, pushing against the wall of silence, praying it would break. His heart pounded; his head felt like it would split in two, but the Bond wanted this. It wanted to reconnect vampire and Consort.
There was a ripple of power, like the swell of a wave and Doyle felt something give. He gasped as it hit him - the full torrent of Angel's emotions: rage; fear; pain. So much pain. Doyle staggered and would have fallen if a pair of arms hadn't reached out and held him up. His eyes flew open and he stared into a concerned face. The face belonged to a young soldier. Doyle pulled free and tried to hide his manacled wrists, wracking his brain for a suitable cover story. He backed into a table and sent the items on it crashing to the floor in a mess of broken glass and spilt liquids. Panic stricken, Doyle darted away, fingers scrabbling for the scalpel.
"Woah. Wait up." The young soldier held out his hands in an appeasing gesture.
Doyle paused, fingers closing around the handle of the scalpel.
"I thought it was you." The soldier shook his head. "What the Hell are you doing here?" Seeing Doyle's expression the soldier continued. "You don't remember me, do you?"
Doyle didn't know where this was going so he opted to play along for now. "Should I?"
"Sunnydale. Top-secret base. You, me and a dozen other guys stuck in a supplies cupboard when the lights went out. This stirring any memories yet? We should have listened to you; that thing was majorly bad news." He tapped his leg. "Seems I owe you guys one. Doc said I would have stood a good chance of being out of the game if those two hadn't set this right."
Doyle frowned as he tried to place the young man's face. Older than Xander by a few years. Tall and broad shouldered with light hair and eyes. Good looking in a clean-cut, military way. "I don't remember you," he answered honestly.
The young man shrugged, untroubled by the admission. "No reason why you should. The name's Graham. Graham Miller." He held out his hand.
Doyle didn't take it. "That would be Agent Miller. Right?"
"Well, I won't lie and say I'm off duty."
"Never happens, huh?"
Graham shook his head. "But that doesn't mean I'm gonna do anything, okay? I just want to know why you're here?"
Doyle bit his lip, thinking. Slowly he raised his shackled hands. "Apparently, I'm Unknown Hostile 114/GH."
"You're a Hostile?" Graham's expression wavered between incredulity and alarm.
Uh oh. Doyle realized then that Graham must have missed the manifestation of his demon-side during the Sunnydale showdown. He took a deep breath and decided to go with his gut. "I'm half-demon."
"Demon?"
"I think Angel already gave you guys this little pep talk. You know how the tune goes - you say Hostile; I say demon."
"So…you're…a…"
"-Hostile. To be exact - a dead Hostile." Doyle indicated the morgue with his bound hands. "I came from back there."
"You're dead?" Graham looked Doyle up and down. "You're not dead."
"It was a misunderstanding."
"And you're trying to escape?"
"No. I thought I'd lend you fellas a hand by starting my own autopsy." Doyle waved his scalpel.
Graham flushed slightly. "Okay. Dumb question. But there's no way you're gonna make it out of here like that." He took something out of his pocket. Doyle waved the scalpel more threateningly and took a step back. "Easy." Graham held out the item for Doyle's inspection. "It's just a key. Hold out your hands." Warily, Doyle did. Graham slid the small electronic key into the lock and the manacles sprang open. Graham slipped them off. Doyle rubbed his wrists. "Okay?" Graham asked.
Doyle nodded.
"Good. Then let's get you out of here." Graham put a hand on Doyle's shoulder to guide him forward.
Suspicious, Doyle resisted. "Why are you helpin' me?"
"Like I said, I owe you guys one and I like to clear my debts." Graham released Doyle's shoulder and walked toward the door. He looked back when Doyle didn't follow. "Come on," he urged.
Doyle was still following his instincts when he blurted out the reason for his hesitancy. "Angel's here."
"Who?"
"One the guys who saved you from bein' Mr. Peg-leg. Actually, they're both here. An' I'm here to get 'em out."
Graham shook his head vehemently. "No way. Look, this is my job. I took an oath to-"
"-Imprison terrified women and kids?"
"What?"
"Okay. Long story. The gist of it is this, we got in this mess helpin' some poor kid your goons were after. She was comin' here for a better way of life. What did she get? - Crazies with guns chasin' her and her family. She's a Quix demon by the way. Hostile number God knows what to you idiots. They're about as dangerous as Bambi but that doesn't mean a thing to you fellas, does it?" Doyle's eyes glittered with anger. He was too worked up to care about the wisdom of calling his almost ally an idiot. "An' you've got yourselves a bigger problem. You guys have really got a knack of inviting the wrong fellas back for dinner. Two of those Hostiles are Pyros demons."
Graham was frowning at him. Doyle was in full flow. "Now cos there's only two it'll probably take 'em a while. But when they get things cookin' you're gonna want to be a long way from here. So I'll make you a deal. You help me get to Angel an' I'll give you the low down on your Pyros problem." Doyle waited for Graham's answer, trying not to look as nervous as he felt.
Graham looked torn but after several moments hesitation he nodded. "Okay. I'll take you to him but that's as much as I can do."
"Good enough," said Doyle slipping into the white coat. "I can find him. I just need you to keep the heavies off my back. Okay?"
"I'll do my part," said Graham flatly.
They left together. Doyle tried to look like he belonged, walking briskly to keep up with Graham's lengthy strides. His heart was pounding so hard his chest hurt, but the Bond was calling and he followed eagerly. He reluctantly admitted to himself that his silent shadow was proving handy: Graham had the ways and means to open the various doors they encountered - voice patterns, fingerprints, retinal scans, key codes. This place had some major security. Doyle spared an anxious thought for Xander and Wesley. Then they were there.
Doyle stepped up to the force field, feeling the energy from it crackling across his skin. He stared at the form huddled in a corner of the cell. Naked above the waist, Angel's skin had lost its usual ivory luster. Now a dull greyish white smeared with scarlet, jagged tears exposing the shocking white of bone. Doyle made a choked sound and would have stumbled forward into the force field if Graham hadn't held him back.
"Hold on. I'll get the field down." Even Graham seemed disturbed by the visual before him. He keyed a number into an electronic lock on the wall.
There was a flicker, the force field was gone and Doyle was kneeling beside his lover. "Angel." He breathed the word as a heartfelt whisper. Then he moaned as the full breadth of his lover's injuries became apparent. Something had literally torn Angel apart. Gaping wounds had been ripped into his back and chest revealing bone and internal organs.
"Fuck."
Graham's muttered exclamation brought Doyle out of his shell-shocked state. He touched Angel's cheek gently. "Angel. Mo gra." Doyle continued to whisper soft endearments in Gaelic until Angel's eyelids fluttered open.
"D-Doyle?" Angel's voice was the barest of croaks.
"Yeah." Doyle rubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes, feeling the hot sting of tears building. "God. Angel." He couldn't say anymore and the tears fell.
"Sssh. Mo gra." Angel tried to reach for Doyle but his arm shook with the effort. Doyle caught his hand and gently cradled it.
Then Doyle looked at Graham, his gaze fierce. "He needs blood."
Graham nodded. "They've left some. I guess they didn't think how he'd manage to feed himself."
More like they didn't care Doyle thought, with a spasm of hatred. He accepted the bag of blood Graham handed him and tore it open, sniffing the contents warily. It smelt all right but he was hardly a connoisseur. "Are they likely to have drugged it?"
Graham could only shrug.
There was really no alternative. Angel needed a lot of blood, certainly more than Doyle could give. He held the blood bag to Angel's lips. "Drink." He squeezed the bag gently, letting a river of red run into Angel's lax mouth. Angel swallowed convulsively at first, then more eagerly. There were three bags. Angel drained them all. It wasn't enough. Doyle carefully drew Angel against him and bared his throat. Strong fingers closed around his arm and he met Graham's bewildered stare.
"What are you doing?"
Doyle gave him a 'what do you think' look.
Graham shook his head. "Uh, uh. No way. I can't let you do this."
Doyle leveled a hard stare at the soldier. "Let's get something clear. This is my lover. He needs blood to heal. Now unless you're volunteering to be a donor, back off."
Graham's expression remained troubled but he released Doyle's arm. To his credit, he'd shown no sign of shock or revulsion over the tenderness on display. Even before Doyle's admission it must have been fairly evident what the relationship between the pair was. Now he sat in unwilling compliance as Doyle bared his throat to Angel.
Doyle was no longer conscious of Graham's presence. He felt only the unnatural chill of his lover's skin against his own and the pleasure/pain of needle sharp fangs sinking through his flesh. There was a sort of dull wrenching ache and then blossoming heat as the blood flowed. He felt it pulsing from his body, a strange, hypnotic rhythm, music that only he and Angel could hear. He was dimly aware Angel might not possess the willpower to stop. However, after what felt like too brief a time Angel's hands batted at him, pushing him away even as he continued to drink. Doyle understood; Angel knew he had to stop but couldn't. Reluctantly, Doyle pulled away, hearing Angel's sharp gasp of loss.
Doyle sat back, feeling vaguely dizzy. He turned his head to look at Angel, meeting golden eyes and bloody fangs without flinching. He trailed a finger along a ridge of skin, feeling it ripple and change as Angel shifted back into his human aspect. The dark gaze was haunted, though the pallor was noticeably less stark and Angel's voice had new strength to it.
"I could have killed you."
"Never," said Doyle confidently.
Angel shook his head. "I wanted to keep drinking."
"You didn't," Doyle reminded him.
"You had to stop me." Angel's voice was agonized.
"You let me stop you," Doyle clarified gently. "Now d'you feel up to takin' a little walk? Cos we really need to get you out of here." He aimed a challenging look at Graham, silently asking if the soldier was going to try and stop them. Graham's expression implied that he was wrestling with his conscience and a need to do his duty. Nevertheless, he made no move intervene as Doyle assisted Angel to his feet and walked them both toward the cell opening. Angel was biting his lip in an effort not to cry out; after only a few steps he staggered and nearly brought them both down. Another pair of arms unexpectedly saved them from hitting the floor, though Angel moaned with pain.
"Sorry," Graham mumbled. "Here, let me take this side." He eased an arm around Angel's right side, allowing Doyle to concentrate his efforts on supporting the left.
Angel blinked at Graham in muzzy confusion. He sniffed - animal-like - trying to identify Graham's scent, but was no wiser. "Who-?" He took in the green attire and growled.
Graham swallowed hard but didn't flinch away.
"He's a friend payin' off an old debt," said Doyle quickly. "He's okay." The growl dropped to a low rumbling. "I wouldn't have got to you without his help."
Angel fell silent.
Graham drew in a deep breath and kept pace with Doyle as they went forward. "There," he suddenly announced. "We need to put him on that." There was a trolley parked in one corner of the room beyond the cell, amidst the monitors and recording equipment.
This wasn't just a cell, Doyle realized. It was an observation booth. Had they been watching his lover slowly bleeding out? Waiting to see how much blood had to drain away before he dissolved into dust and ashes. Doyle was barely able to check the desperate urge to tear the room apart as a wave of red crashed over him. Breathing hard to bring his temper back under control, Doyle assisted Graham in settling Angel on the trolley. When the soldier went to strap Angel down, Doyle's hand shot out to stop him. "No," he said coldly. "You're not tying him down with those things."
Graham must have seen something in Doyle's face because he nodded and spoke gently to him, like he was the sole survivor of some terrible accident. "Okay. We won't tie him down. We'll just cover him up with something." A quick search found a green canvas that could pass as a sheet. They draped it over Angel's body.
"It might be an idea to cover his face," Graham pointed out in the same gentle, reasonable tone. "I don't know who brought him down here, but if we pass them in the corridor we're gonna face a lot of questions we can't answer."Doyle turned to face Graham, suddenly mindful of what the young man was risking by helping them like this. "Mebbe you should go. You don't hafta come with us."
"You'll never make it out of here without me," said Graham simply.
"If they catch us they'll court martial you?" Doyle guessed.
Graham smiled grimly. "This isn't the kind of gig they let you walk away from."
Doyle didn't try to hide his shock - though he wasn't sure why he should feel any. These sick fucks experimented on their own men. God only knew what they were capable of. "You should go," he urged. "I won't give 'em your name if they catch us."
Graham just shook his head. He seemed more resigned than anything. "I believe in some of what we do. I always have. I guess that's why I agreed to relocate to L.A. But what you said before - you're right. Some of the Hostiles we've been hunting down and locking up; they seem harmless. It's like…I don't know. I feel like-"
"-A storm trooper?" Doyle suggested, not totally cruelly. "Like you're lockin' 'em away just cos they're different. Not cos they're dangerous?"
Graham sighed heavily. "Maybe. I don't know." He sounded tired all of a sudden. "I guess I've been trying not to think about it. We're not paid to think, after all." There was a definite note of bitterness to that last part.
"Seems to me when guys like you stop thinkin', that's when the trouble starts," said Doyle. "So what are you gonna do?"
Graham took a firm grip on the trolley. "I'll get you both out of here."
"Sounds like a plan," said Doyle taking his side of the trolley. As much as it hurt him to see his semi-conscious lover covered up like a lifeless corpse, he agreed with Graham's idea. He pressed a quick kiss to Angel's mouth before drawing the sheet over Angel's face. "Let's go." Graham led the way as they wheeled the helpless Angel out of the room and into the first corridor. Doyle freed one hand from the trolley to tug his collar up over the wound at his throat. He kept his head down and kept his fingers crossed that no one would notice. He hoped that Xander and Wesley would somehow find Spike. The initial plan had been for them to meet up, but with Angel so weak he was afraid to linger. They couldn't hope to fight their way out of this. Maybe if he got Angel to safety he could enlist Graham's help in finding the others? He refused to entertain the possibility that it might already be too late to save Spike.