The Problem

By Esmeralda

Chapter Six

Doyle awoke when the tugging on his wrist jarred his right hand, sending shooting pains stabbing down his arm. He moaned in protest, but the tugging didn't stop, and then suddenly his arm was free. It fell limply down by his side, accompanied by a gasp of pain. Doyle tried to force his eyelids to open - it seemed to be taking an unreasonable amount of effort. When at last he succeeded he found himself focusing blurrily on the shapeless face of the Shurub. It was working on the manacle binding his left wrist, its huge paws proving to be surprisingly dexterous

"Ugh?" It was meant to be 'what are you doing?' but Doyle found that his cut and swollen mouth shied away from forming actual words.

The Shurub didn't respond, nor did it stop what it was doing, until finally the second manacle clicked open. Doyle would have dropped like a stone if the Shurub hadn't been holding onto his arm. However, as he dangled awkwardly from its grasp, the resulting agony almost sent him plummeting back into the darkness. He choked back the surge of bile that burned his throat, determined to hold onto the contents of his stomach. The Shurub adjusted its grip, handling him surprisingly gently - considering it had been beating the crap out of him only a little while earlier.

Doyle was utterly confused. Somehow the feeling must have managed to manifest itself on his bruised, swollen features, as the creature appeared to make an approximation of a shrug - quite an achievement for something without a visible neck.

"Lady, loud." The Shurub sounded as if it was speaking around a mouthful of rocks.

Doyle frowned, but evidently the Shurub had nothing more to offer. Thinking really required more energy than he was able to muster right now. Nevertheless, Doyle deduced that Darla had offended the creature's sensibilities in some way by shouting at it - in a way that employing it to torture the life out of someone clearly had not. It seemed, the creature had decided to retaliate by ruining the 'loud lady's' fun i.e. by letting Doyle go.

Unfortunately, Doyle wasn't in a fit state to actually go anywhere, no matter how much he desired it. This little fact took a while to sink through the Shurub's gnarly skin. It kept trying to stand Doyle up, 'humphing' in annoyance when he repeatedly fell down: something that got old really, really quickly. Doyle's legs weren't broken, but they had the tensile strength of soggy papier-mâché. Eventually, the Shurub got the message, and heaving Doyle up one more time, it draped him over one massive shoulder.

Doyle cried out weakly as his ribs protested the position but the Shurub ignored him. Spots swam before his eyes and he struggled to hang on to consciousness as the creature shambled away. Every step was agony though he was strengthened by the knowledge that each one took him further away from Darla and what would almost certainly have been his lingering, agonizing death. Still, the question remained - where exactly was he being taken? He had no idea how badly he was hurt, but he wasn't at all sure that he would survive if the Shurub simply chose to abandon him somewhere.

He wondered if the creature would be open to a little bribery. Trying to ignore the nausea-inducing pain in his hands, he forced his fingers to comply and groped around in his shirt top pocket. The shirt - now more holes and bloodstains than garment - had been a particular favourite. Its roomy pocket could hold all manner of useful trinket, such as the small silver hip flask he now produced. He dangled it in front of the Shurub's gaze; hold it out for the creature's inspection.

Doyle hoped that the shiny metal would appeal to the simpleminded Shurub. It did. The creature emitted a grunt of obvious interest, and reached for the flask. When Doyle pulled it away the Shurub growled its displeasure and stood still. Its head turned toward Doyle - who found that he was staring into curiously expressionless eyes. He forced the words past cracked, bleeding lips. "Later. You get this later. First, take me to Angel." His desperate plan hinged on two key points. One, the Shurub wouldn't simply kill him and rifle the flask from his corpse, and two, that the creature would know where to find Angel.

It regarded him with a flat, unblinking stare. Doyle held his breath. It nodded. "Flask, later." This was evidently acceptance of Doyle's terms; the creature changed direction and ambled onwards once more.

--------------------

Doyle rapidly lost track of his surroundings, as he drifted in and out of consciousness. When the Shurub stopped again, it lowered him to the ground and Doyle realised he was in a sewer tunnel. He looked around and recognized the trap door leading to Angel's apartment. Tears of relief reduced his vision to a dark blur. He pressed the flask into a huge, leathery paw with a hoarse but heartfelt. "Thank you." He held no malice toward this mindless, mountain of muscle. It had tortured him simply because Darla had told it to. It had taken no pleasure in his pain, no satisfaction in his suffering. It was almost childlike in its inability to think for itself. Darla had taken advantage of that.

Doyle found it within himself to offer the Shurub a final warning before the creature shuffled off. "Stay away from her," he cautioned. "She's a bad 'loud lady', 'kay?

The Shurub stared, and then nodded slowly. "Loud," it agreed, as if this were the only reason it needed to avoid Darla's company. Perhaps it was.

"Yeah," Doyle mumbled softly. "Loud." He watched the Shurub leave, its massive bulk almost filling the entire round of the tunnel. Only when it had gone did he realise he was pretty much stuck; there was no way he could climb up to the trap door. What little strength he had remaining was failing fast, he was fighting now just to stay conscious. "Fuck," he muttered, wishing he'd asked the Shurub to knock. He tried to shout "Hey." But it came out as a shaky croak. He tried again. "Hey." - It wasn't much better. Doyle slumped weakly against the brickwork, heedless of the slime and water seeping into his clothes. "Help," he muttered - only semi-conscious now - "I need help, someone. Help.."

His eyes rolled back and he fell silent.

Chapter Seven

The lone occupant of the apartment paused in the process of pouring himself a drink. Xander was taking a break from the seemingly endless pile of books Angel had left for him; his eyes hurt from squinting at the tiny print. He'd found numerous references to Aruubus, or Aruubi, as they were apparently known in plural. Unfortunately, none offered anything useful, such as an oft-frequented hangout or hideaway.

Xander was trying very hard not to dwell on the painful possibility that the Spike he knew and loved might be lost to him forever. It was a thought too agonizing to contemplate. After what felt like a lifetime of being unwanted and underfoot, all had finally come right in Xander Harris' world. He had a sense of purpose, and even more remarkable someone who loved him exactly as way he was, without any designs on changing him. Now it seemed all that might have been ripped away, and he was once again left floundering.

Perhaps the hardest part of all was that though Spike was lost to him, the vampire was still very much here. He looked the same; he sounded pretty much the same; it was tearing Xander apart. He wanted to be able to joke with his lover, to tease and touch, and have wild monkey sex. But sight and sound aside, this Spike was a stranger. This was the Spike of a century before, and regardless of talk of Consorts and connections, Xander felt very much the outsider again.

He sighed and sipped at his juice. Halfway through his second mouthful he stopped. He'd definitely heard something that time. What was that? Xander approached the trapdoor; he set down his juice and crouched beside it. After a moment's hesitation, he drew back the bolts and raised it slightly, peering into the gloom. His night vision had been steadily improving; he could quite clearly make out a shape in the blackness. He narrowed his gaze and opened the trapdoor a little more, letting some of the light from the room pour down into the darkness.

The light caught the paleness of skin, illuminating it to Xander's curious gaze. He gave a cry of shock and horror and flung the trapdoor fully back, leaping down into the tunnel without a thought. "Doyle!" The figure didn't stir, and for one dreadful, drawn out moment, Xander feared that his friend was dead. Then he heard a wet, raspy breath and his grief settled slightly. He knelt, his hands hovering uncertainly, unsure where he could touch without causing more pain or harm. However, Xander knew that he had to get Doyle up into the apartment. The cold and damp was starting to make him shiver, and Doyle's skin, when he touched it, was already like ice.

"I'm sorry," he whispered softly; an apology for the pain he knew was unavoidable, as he gently lifted the other man into his arms. Doyle's only response was a slight hitch in his breathing - too far gone into unconsciousness to fully register what was happening. Xander had to transfer the slight figure onto his shoulder in order to scale the ladder. The wet, gurgling breaths next to his ear made him shudder.

The last part - exiting the opening - proved a little tricky, and Xander was forced to set Doyle down on the floor first, before scrambling out after him. In the light of the apartment Doyle looked even worse. His face was badly swollen, the features distorted and bloody, leaving him barely recognizable. What remained of his shirt was sodden and torn, the skin visible beneath coated in grime and still more blood. Xander gently lifted Doyle again, carrying him through into the bedroom. His teeth worried his lower lip as he carefully examined his charge.

Unfortunately, it was every bit as bad as it looked. No more than a square inch of skin had been spared; the rest held either cuts, burns or bruises. Someone had evidently taken a whip to Doyle's torso, the lash marks clearly visible. Xander moved swiftly; he brought the medical kit and a soft, clean facecloth from the bathroom. Then he carried through a bowl of warm water from the kitchen, grabbing his cell phone as he walked past. Taking out the scissors from the kit, he cut the shirt free from Doyle's battered body. Then he soaked the cloth in the warm water, and very gently he began to wash away the blood and dirt.

Balancing the cell phone against his ear, Xander pressed the speed-dial. "Come, Angel. Come on," he muttered frantically. There wasn't even a ringing tone; either the phone was broken, or Angel was out of range. Xander cursed and dropped the phone onto the bedside cabinet; at the clatter, Doyle moaned and moved slightly.

"Doyle?" Xander moved the washcloth up to Doyle's face, using a fresh corner to gently brush away the bloody mess that soiled it. He quickly realised that Doyle was trying to draw some of the moisture from the wet cloth. Cursing himself for his thoughtlessness, Xander raced back into the kitchen and brought a cup of fresh water. Knowing that there was no way Doyle could drink from it, Xander dipped his fingers into the cup and very gently stroked them across Doyle's cracked, split lips. At first there appeared to be no response; then Doyle's lips slowly parted - just the barest fraction - and a tongue cautiously flickered out to claim the precious liquid.

Xander repeated the process twice more until - apparently exhausted by the effort - Doyle appeared to have had enough. Xander put down the cup and picked up the washcloth again. He wiped it gently over Doyle's forehead. "Doyle?" he whispered. "Doyle, can you hear me?" He frowned as the lips moved but no sound came out. He knelt down on the floor, bringing his face level with the other man's. "Doyle?"

"Xan-Xander?"

That time he heard it, the faintest of whispers, so fragile that it was almost lost behind the sound of his own breathing. He was just thankful that Doyle had spoken at all. "Yeah," he replied. "It's me. It's okay. You're safe now." He didn't know what other reassurances he could offer. "What.what happened?" he asked hesitantly.

"D-d-d"

Doyle was clearly struggling to force out the words. He seemed to grow agitated from the effort. Xander grew alarmed by the rapid increase in the ragged, uneven breathing. "Hey. Shush, easy, easy. It doesn't matter. We'll talk later, okay? When Angel gets back. You just rest. It's going to be all right." Tenderly, he risked a touch to the other man's face, tracing the poor, bruised cheek with a shaking finger. "You're going to be all right," he repeated, more a desperate reassurance to himself than anything.

However, Doyle shook his head. "D-d-" he rasped.

Xander didn't like the sound of that. "Do you mean danger? We're in danger?"

"D-d" Doyle began again, and then he broke off on a fit of coughing.

Xander reached for the cup of water, but Doyle fell silent before his fingers had closed around it. "Doyle?" Scared, Xander shuffled closer, and almost collapsed with relief when he detected the shallow rise and fall of Doyle's chest. The other man had lapsed back into unconsciousness: a decided improvement on death, but still far from a good thing.

"Okay, right. Danger." Now what the hell was he supposed to do? He couldn't get in touch with Angel. Spike was with Angel. He was on his own. Xander set his mouth determinedly and reached for his cell phone again, punching in another number. "Hi, Cordy-I don't care what time it is- I need your help. Get here fast. I'm at the apartment." He glanced back at the figure on the bed. "It's Doyle, he's hurt. Yeah, it's bad," he added softly. He closed the phone. He hadn't said what he had to alarm Cordelia. He just wanted her to understand the dire urgency of the situation. Besides, he didn't want her walking in here and freaking out.

He turned his attentions back to Doyle, refilling the bowl with fresh warm water before recommencing the wiping down. Doyle never once stirred; though to Xander's continual relief, his chest continued to rise and fall fairly steadily with each rattling breath.

Chapter Eight

"Oh, my God." Cordelia's horror reflected on her face.

Xander cut past her questions. "Listen, there's no time to explain. I need you to stay here and look after Doyle-"

"-He should be in a hospital," said Cordelia interrupted, moving toward the bed.

"No." Xander was vehement. "No hospitals." At Cordelia's look he offered a hasty explanation. "Think, Cordy. He's half-demon. God only knows what his blood-work would look like. The guys in white coats would be carting him off before you could blink."

It was a valid point. Cordelia conceded, albeit reluctantly. "Okay, no hospitals. What do you want to do then? And where's Angel?"

"I've no idea." Xander gave his cell phone a shake. "I can't get through to him on this thing."

"He's probably switched it off again." Angel's hatred for all things cellular was near legendary.

"No. It's on. He's just out of signal range or something. Maybe they're underground?" he wondered aloud.

"So what are we going to do?" Cordelia had taken up the washcloth and was stroking it down Doyle's arms. Suddenly her face crumpled. "He's unconscious. I thought he was just resting." She turned to Xander in distress.

"He'll be fine, Cordy." Xander tried to reassure her. "He's half-demon, remember? He'll heal in no time." He crossed his fingers mentally, hoping that he was telling her the truth. Even cleaned of all the blood and dirt, Doyle still looked terrible. If anything, the swelling was even worse, and his usually pale skin seemed nearly translucent; there was a dreadful fragility surrounding him. Xander didn't want to leave and only the need to fetch Angel tore him from his friend's side. "Listen, I have to go. Whatever you do, don't answer the door to anyone but us."

"Where are you going?"

"To find Angel."

"I thought you said you didn't know where he was?"

"I don't-"

"-Then-"

Xander cut her off. "I can't find Angel; I can find Spike. Don't ask me how. Just trust me on this, okay?"

She nodded, frowning.

Xander placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. "Stay safe."

"We'll be fine, now go." Cordelia gave him a little push.

Xander shot one last desperate look toward Doyle, and then left.

Cordelia called out to as he reached the stairwell. "Wait. Xander, wait."

He stopped.

"Here." She held out her car keys. "Take my car." When he hesitated she pressed them into his hand. "Take it," she insisted. "This is a big city. It'll take you forever on foot."

Xander took them with a nod of thanks. As he raced up the stairs his fears began to prey upon him. He hoped he knew what the hell he was doing. He hoped he'd made the right decision in not taking Doyle to a hospital. He had to find Angel, now. Outside on the street, Xander took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

There was no way to describe to an outsider what he was feeling. This was primeval instinct, power pulsing through his veins, charging his body, making it thrum with energy he could neither withhold nor contain. He let it rush through him, flooding his senses. Xander released another deep, shuddering breath. When he re-opened his eyes they glittered gold; though Xander was unaware of this as he got into Cordelia's car - letting the lure of his lover guide him to his goal.

Chapter Nine

Angel gave an exaggerated sigh and ground Merl's face a little harder into the wall. "Maybe you didn't hear me. An Aruubus. Psychic feeder. We want to know where to find it."

"Hmmgphm."

Angel relaxed his hold slightly.

Merl took a deep breath, and then spoke hastily. "No, no, man. I heard you. I heard you. I just don't know anything, honest. If I did, I'd tell you. You have to believe me." His voice took on a whining, pleading tone.

"And why should I do that?" Angel asked, pressing a little harder again.

"Aagh, cos it's the truth. Honest. I don't know anything., Angel man, please." Merl was in danger of losing his teeth to the brickwork.

Angel made a sound equal parts disgust and exasperation as he pushed Merl away from him.

"My turn?" Spike asked hopefully.

Angel seemed to be considering it.

Merl's alarmed eyes widened even further. Angel might terrify him, but at least the ensouled vampire could be trusted to show some restraint; he could expect no such clemency from the other one. "Please," he begged. "I don't know anything, but maybe.maybe I could find out. If you let me go." He turned a desperate, hopeful gaze upon Angel, whilst sidling away from Spike.

"All right," Angel agreed. "You've got ten hours."

"Ten?" Merl squeaked. Twenty-four was the usual going rate.

"*Ten*," Angel repeated. "Then we're coming back."

Merl nodded glumly. In his mind he was already calculating how far he could get in ten hours. Unfortunately, Angel knew him a little too well.

As Angel made to leave, he paused and turned back. "Oh and Merl?"

Merl looked.

"*Be here*."

Merl sank to the floor, head in hands. He had to find a new line of work - informing was playing havoc with his digestive system.

--------------------

Angel walked back through the tunnel system, Spike followed.

"That's it?" Spike asked, disgust colouring his voice. "You hardly touched him. Aren't you even gonna make him bleed a *little*?"

"He doesn't know anything," said Angel tiredly.

"Well even if he did, he probably wouldn't cough it up from that. We should go back and-"

Angel grabbed Spike's arm to stop him. "H e d i d n ' t k n o w a n y t h i n g," he announciated firmly.

Spike's face grew sullen. He shook his arm free. "So what are we gonna do now then, *mate*?" The last word was sarcastic.

Angel ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know," he confessed. "I was sure if anyone would know anything it would be Merl."

"You got any other contacts?"

"A few," said Angel. "But if Merl doesn't know.." He let his voice trail off, but the implication was clear; if Merl didn't know it was unlikely that any of the others would.

Spike shrugged and went through his pockets looking for another smoke.

Angel found it a little odd, not to mention annoying, that out of the three of them Spike appeared the least affected by his loss of memories. He could only surmise that now Spike's true nature had re-established itself, the younger vampire was calmer, and relatively untroubled by what he'd lost, quite literally because he didn't remember it. How could you mourn or miss something, which - to your own mind - you'd never had? In fact, Angel had to keep reminding himself that Spike had lost his memory. Because, aside from a few speech discrepancies, there appeared to be very little difference between this Spike, and his normal sarcastic, sniping childe. It made Angel wonder just how much of Spike's character had been shaped by his turning, and how much of it had already been in place.

However, if Spike was relatively unconcerned, Angel was not. Time was pressing on, and he had no real idea how much they'd had to start with. Had Spike's memories already decayed beyond saving? Angel refused to accept that possibility - not yet. They had arrived back at the car. Angel plucked Spike's unfinished cigarette out of his fingers and managed to get his complaining childe into the front seat. They still had a few more name to check out, maybe one of them would know something, and if not, there was always the chance that one of Doyle's contacts had come through.

"I'm hungry," Spike muttered sullenly.

Angel reached over into the back seat and snapped open the cooler box, he pulled out a container. "Here, try this." Spike took it from him, removing the lid and sniffing the contents cautiously.

He looked back up at Angel, eyes a little wide. "Blood?"

Angel could see the old Will's revulsion and wariness waring against Spike's blood craving. "Just try some," he suggested gently.

Spike looked back at the container. Closing his eyes he, tipped his head back and took a long swallow. His face shifted into his vampiric ridges - now creased with disgust. "It's cold."

"It was in a cooler box," said Angel dryly; still, he understood his childe's dismay: cold blood just wasn't the same.

Spike slumped down in his seat. "I want to go 'ome."

Angel reigned in his exasperation; he'd been expecting Spike to become more agitated the longer he was away from Xander, but they still needed to find the Aruubus. "A few more stops, then we'll head back," he promised.

"Whatever you say, mate." Spike poked a finger into the container and then slurped the blood off it noisily.

Angel started the car. "Try not to get any of that on the seats."

Spike made a rude gesture and hooked out another fingerful.

Angel sighed.

--------------------

They'd visited another three informants and were driving to the fourth when Spike suddenly stiffened and sat up in his seat. His features had softened back into their human visage; they reflected disorientated confusion.

"You all right?" Angel asked.

Spike whined.an actual, animalistic whine, like a dog in distress, or a wolf.

Angel pulled up quickly, stopping the car in a quiet side street. If Spike was going to have a 'strange moment' he didn't want any witnesses. When another car pulled in directly behind them, Angel tensed in readiness, and then relaxed as Xander jumped out - well at least that explained Spike's odd behaviour. He went to greet him, and tensed up again as a closer look revealed that the youth was in a considerably distressed state; glittering eyes huge and dark in a paler than normal face. Something was very wrong. "Xand-" he began.

"-It's Doyle," Xander cut in. "He's hurt."

For one dizzy, sickening moment the world seemed to lurch, and Angel had to place a hand on the car door to steady himself. He met Xander's frightened gaze and the question must have been clear on his face.

"I-I think it's bad." Xander's soft voice shook a little. "He was really out of it, but he said something about danger and I thought - I didn't know what to do - I didn't want to leave him alone in case whoever did it came there, but I had to find you.Cordy's with him -" Xander was running out of breath.

Angel interrupted the youth's frantic rambling. "It's all right, Xander. You did the right thing. Now let's just go, okay?" He was desperate to see his lover's injuries for himself. Doyle had spoken to Xander - so he couldn't be too badly hurt, right?

Xander nodded, and went back to Cordy's car.

Spike had latched onto Xander from the moment he'd appeared, keeping one hand on Xander's arm the whole time the youth had been talking. Now he followed Xander, sliding into the passenger seat beside him.

Angel got back into the Cadillac. His hands shook as he restarted the engine. For a brief second he stared blankly ahead of him, anguished beyond all measure. Doyle was hurt. His Doyle. Someone had hurt his Doyle. He wanted to pray that the young man was going to be all right.but what deity would listen to a vampire's prayers?

Chapter Ten

Xander drove as close to the speed limit as he dared; now was most definitely not the time to be attracting the attention of an officer of the law, not with a near-to-the-edge Spike sitting along side him. He kept glancing at his lover. Spike was in human guise, but only barely. His eyes shone gold and his features kept shimmering, as if he were struggling to hold onto his appearance. His hand had settled upon Xander's leg and Xander could feel the cold touch of those long, pale fingers through his jeans. It was familiar contact and it soothed his jangled nerves slightly, though paradoxically it also made him aware that the comfort he could normally expect from Spike was currently beyond his reach. This was still a stranger, and now their quest to restore Spike's memories had been indefinitely put on hold. Who was doing this to them? And why? Xander pressed down harder on the pedal and tried not to let his despair choke him.

As he pulled up outside the office Angel was already racing inside. Xander followed; Spike had taken hold of his hand and didn't appear to be about to let go of it anytime soon. Xander was grateful for the physical contact as he re-entered the bedroom. Cordelia moved out of the way to let Angel to sit beside his lover. Angel stared at Doyle's battered face, his expression one of fear, grief and barely contained rage. As Xander looked on, Angel studied one of Doyle's ruined hands.

"They broke some of his fingers."

The raw pain in Angel's voice made Xander's throat hurt. Cordelia began to cry softly.

Spike peered over Xander's shoulder. "Bloody Hell. Someone gave the poor bugger a right going over, didn't they."

Angel carefully lay Doyle's hand back down upon the bedcovers, Doyle murmured softly.

"Doyle?" Angel leaned closer. "Doyle?"

One green eye opened a sliver; the other was swollen shut. "A-Angel?"

Angel's expression melted into one of relief, even as the tears that had shimmered in his eyes began to fall. "Yes, I'm here." He touched Doyle's cheek gently. "I...I.-" His voice broke and he lowered his head. Cordelia gave a loud sniffle and practically ran from the room. Xander tightened his hold on Spike and received an answering squeeze in return. As Angel sat, his head bowed, Doyle's arm began to rise, slowly and shakily, until the half-demon was able to clumsily pat his lover's head.

"Sshh-shh," Doyle croaked. "I'm-" He swallowed. "I'm good. It's worse.than.it.looks."

Spike gave a snort.

Angel raised his head, his expression fierce. "Who did this?"

Doyle swallowed again, wincing as the action caused obvious pain. "Darla."

"Darla?" This from Cordelia, who'd re-entered the room clutching a handful of tissues. Her usually perfect features were red and blotchy.

"Who's Darla?" asked Spike.

"That can't be right," said Xander. "I mean she's dead. Right? As in, really dead. As in dusted?"

"Unless someone brought her back." Angel spoke distractedly, almost to himself.

"They can do that?" Cordelia asked.

Angel nodded. "It wouldn't be easy, and it would take a lot of power. But yes, it's possible."

"Who's Darla?" Spike was beginning to sound annoyed.

Xander spoke softly and urgently to his lover. "She's bad news. Very bad news." He frowned. "And it's so not fair that they can just bring her back." His frown deepened. "And what re-animator wannabe would even want to?"

"I don't know," said Angel. "But I'm going to find out." He was holding onto Doyle's hand, repeatedly stroking his fingers over an unmarred section of skin.

Doyle was still clinging to consciousness and he responded to this declaration with a desperate. "No."

Angel looked at him, confused.

"She.she wanted you b-back," Doyle gasped. "She's crazy. The curse.She knows we changed it." Doyle was breathing hard as he struggled to get the words out. He stared beseechingly at his lover. "Please, Angel, just stay away from her."

"How could she know?" Xander asked.

"She's been watching."

Angel's words, spoken so flatly, sent a chill down Xander's spine. "Watching? But I thought-? Wouldn't you have known if she'd been hanging around? Like you did with P-Penn." Xander bit down on his lip angrily. One day he was going to say that name without stumbling over it.

Angel shook his head. "I can only sense those I Sired."

"Can she sense you?"

"Maybe," Angel shook his head. "I don't know. If she can, she's never let on. Anyway, she'll have to wait." He looked at his lover. "We have to get you comfortable."

"I'm.oka-"

"-No, you're not," Angel cut in gently. "But you will be. For now you're going to let me take care of you."

Doyle seemed about to protest, but then his face twisted into a grimace and he nodded his assent.

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Angel knew from Doyle's expression that the young man was uncomfortable with everyone looking on, so he gently cleared the others out of the room; that done, he closed the bedroom doors and set about removing the rest of Doyle's clothing. Every wound he uncovered magnified his rage, cold fire burning through his blood. He had destroyed Darla once, and grieved over it; mourning the loss of his Sire.his lover. There had been regret to match the shock on her face as he'd driven the arrow deep. This was different. Before he'd acted out of necessity - her life balanced against Buffy's - but it had been unpremeditated. Now he wanted to hunt her down. He wanted to pay back each cut, burn and broken bone; he would deliver this pain upon her tenfold. Then he would kill her. This time the thought brought him no grief, no sense of loss. She had hurt what was his and she would pay.

He was as careful as he could be - bathing the wounds, binding Doyle's ribs, places splints upon the broken fingers - but he knew that he was causing his lover pain and that knowledge tore at him. With every sharp breath and grimace he felt his control slipping. When he bound Doyle's ribs the young man gave a choked sob and his face erupted into a mask of spines.

"S-sorry," Doyle gasped. "I'd.I'd forgotten how much ribs hurt."

Angel's mouth tightened. He wouldn't crack. Not yet. "I don't think any of them are broken."

Doyle took a few shallow breaths and his face shimmered back to its human guise. "No. They're not broke. Bone-wise, I'm p-pretty much rubber boy." His voice, faint and thready, held a touch of bitter humour. "Score one more point for the demon ancestry, eh." He let Angel ease him back, lying propped against the pillows - which was more comfortable for his chest.

"She was going to kill you."

Doyle sighed softly. "Look don't beat yerself up over it. Yeah, she was going to kill me - least I think that was pretty much the plan. But she didn't. I'm here. I'm-"

"*-Don't* say you're fine." Angel spoke through gritted teeth. "She was going to torture you to death-"

"-I know, I was there."

"-Because of me," Angel finished sadly.

Doyle closed his eyes. He didn't have the energy right now to deal with Angel's guilt on top of everything else. He in no way blamed his lover for this, but he didn't know how to set about convincing Angel of that fact. Maybe if he repeated it often enough? "It isn't your fault."

"No?" Angel's voice sounded strained. "It's not my fault that my homicidal, jealous ex-lover came after my current lover and tried to have him tortured to death?"

Doyle re-opened his eyes and glared at Angel. "*No*, that's not your fault. It's hers. She chose to do this. She chose you. When did you ever have any say?" He could see Angel warring against that little hometruth. Doyle struggled to stay awake so he could finish. "It happened. Deal with it. But don't blame yourself, cos I can't be handlin' a crusade of guilt on top of all this other crap." He knew he was being harsh, but he didn't know how else to reach his lover, and pain was cutting short his patience.

Angel's face was tight, a mask of suppressed emotion; the demon barely held at bay. However, Doyle knew the anger wasn't aimed at him. He recalled Darla's words- 'do you have any idea what you've done?' - and he wondered if she had any idea what she'd done. Angel wasn't going to let this go. It didn't matter if he'd prefer it if Angel never crossed paths with his former love. Angel might have a soul, but he was still a vampire, and his unbeating heart would demand retribution ...justice.vengeance; Hell, whatever you liked to call it. Either way, someone was going to end up dusted.

---

Doyle was afraid. Darla was old and powerful; any hesitation on Angel's part could prove fatal. Doyle knew his lover had been fortunate before; Angel had been able to take Darla by surprise, and he hadn't had the opportunity to consider the implications of what he was doing. Any regrets and recriminations had come later. Killing your Sire was literally a taboo in vampire circles; if Angel hadn't already been a virtual outcast amongst his kind that act would certainly have seen him made one. As if reading his thoughts, Angel's soft whisper interrupted his musing.

"I can't let this go." A pause. "I can't.She can't be allowed the chance to hurt you again. Any of you."

Doyle had been thinking about that too. "You think she sent the Aruubus?" Angel's expression was answer enough. Shit, this was getting messier by the minute. "You ever think maybe she's settin' this up to make you go after her? I mean, Spike's not gonna be much help is he? And she must have reckoned that taking me out would make you reckless."

"She knows I've changed," Angel acknowledged. "She knows how much I care about you all." He touched Doyle's face gently, sadly. "How much I love you. She's trying to use that against me."

"You go chasin' after her and she'll have succeeded."

"I have to stop her."

"How? By dustin' her again?" Doyle rode out a wave of pain before adding. "Yeah, cos that worked real well the last time. Who's to say who ever brought her back won't just keep on doin' it. Or are you plannin' on takin' them on too?" The answering silence alarmed him. "No. No way. Angel, think. You said it yerself, this is some serious mojo someone's workin' here." Panic gave him renewed energy. The last thing he wanted was Angel going after some psychotic sorcerer bearing a grudge. He tried to speak again but a bout of coughing cut short what he wanted to say. His ribs screamed in protest and he clung to Angel for support until the agony receded.

"Ang-" he tried once more, but Angel silenced him with gentle fingers laid over his cracked lips.

"Shush, we'll talk more later. Get some rest. I'm here if you need anything."

A chaste kiss brushed his forehead. Doyle fought hard to stay awake; he wanted to hash this out now. He wanted to extract a promise from his lover. He didn't want Angel going after their tormentor alone. However, the combination of his injuries and the exhaustion of the past few hours finally overwhelmed him, and he surrendered to the encroaching darkness.

--------------------

For a while Angel sat, watching over his lover. When Doyle murmured in distress, Angel gently stroked the one unbruised part of his face until he quietened, smoothing out the frown that appeared. Gradually, Doyle's breathing evened out, and the young man drifted into a deeper, dreamless sleep. Angel bestowed a last tender kiss before, with great reluctance, he drew away.

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