Title: Irish Eyes
Author: Brenda Antrim
Email: bren@bantrim.net
Rating: NC-17 for sex and rampant violence, or perhaps violence and rampant sex.
Disclaimer: Shameless, wanton A/U manipulation of canon. No copyright infringement intended.
Author's Note: This story follows "Matched Pair" and will make more sense if read after that story. I miss Doyle.

One of these days something was going to go right. The stars would be in alignment, her voice would do exactly what she wanted it to do, a major producer would just happen to be having an iced latte with the casting director while she performed brilliantly and they would both fall instantly in love with her, leading directly to the life of fame, fortune and acclaim for which she was destined.

She just had to nail this stupid fabric softener spiel and the door would be open.

Cordelia sighed to herself and pushed the door of Angel Investigations open, wincing as slightly as possible to minimize wrinkling around the eyes. The sun was ridiculously bright this early in the morning. What she really needed was a huge mug of coffee and something sinful with cinnamon on it, but she'd settle for the skim milk Angel kept in the fridge. It wasn't as if he needed it, after all, and her budget didn't exactly extend to luxuries like, say, food. But if she tried to say Downy Does It Better a dozen times with her stomach growling, today would definitely not be her day of discovery.

Rubbing one hand gingerly across sleepy eyes, careful not to put too much stress on delicate skin, she plodded down the stairs toward the kitchen. Halfway down the staircase, she froze.

There were noises coming from down there.

Her eyes widened, and her breath caught. The last time there were noises coming from Angel's bedroom a particularly icky goo-demon of some kind had tried to slime the entire office out of existence. If it hadn't been for a convenient party that she simply had to attend, she'd've been sucked into the clean-up crew, and the whole thing had been just too disgusting for words. Not to mention the smells. Keeping one hand on the railing, ready to bolt back upstairs at the first sign of slime but not willing to leave her curiosity unsatisfied, Cordelia peered around the corner into the shadows of the bedroom.

She squeaked, involuntarily, and muffled it with her hand.

No slime, that she could see, although there did seem to be plenty of other ... fluids. Along with a lot of energetic activity. Frozen on the fourth step from the floor, she couldn't have ripped her eyes away from that activity if her life had depended on it.

Angel had his game face on, and was peering up into Doyle's face, who had his back to her. And quite a back it was, too. Not a bad ass, either. Great legs, come to think of it. Doyle was digging his knees into the mattress, every muscle from his neck to his heels straining, butt flexing as he pumped away. At Angel. Into Angel. Whose own heels were planted pretty firmly in the mattress, hands clawing at the sheets, as he howled at the ceiling. The whole bed was rocking.

For Cordelia, her whole world was rocking.

Angel. And Doyle. Doyle doing Angel. And Angel digging it. Big-time. They were both sweating, and groaning, and now Doyle was kissing Angel's neck, or licking it, or biting it, and Cordy was sweating too. Angel's legs came up and wrapped around Doyle's hips, his feet sliding along the back of those trembling thighs, curving around the backs of Doyle's knees. Doyle's hands were moving now, too, reaching down between them, and Cordelia leaned forward unconsciously, knowing theoretically what he was doing but having an uncontrollable urge to see it. The stair beneath her foot creaked and she froze again.

Angel was wailing, now, and Doyle was babbling something Gaelic-sounding at him, so neither one of them heard it, but the possibility of discovery was enough to frighten Cordelia backward up the stairs toward the relative safety of the outer office. Forget the milk, she wasn't that thirsty after all. She licked dry lips. Well, she was, but no way in hell was she going to go back down there and get caught up in the floor show again.

She wouldn't want to leave, if she did.

Head full of impossible possibilities and improbable positions, Cordelia let herself back out into the early morning sunshine and wandered off in the general direction of her audition. She didn't even notice the frantic looking demon with the droopy ears making his way toward the office as she was leaving. She had other things on her mind.

Needless to say, the audition was a bust. She kept drifting off in the middle of words like touchable, soft, silky, sensuous ... and while the little whimpers that escaped at odd moments did render the casting director speechless, it wasn't exactly the kind of speechlessness that had 'she's such a wonderful actress!' written all over it.

She didn't even bother calling in sick. She just went back home, fell in bed, and pulled the covers up over her head.

Angel barely had time to get his trousers zipped before the clatter of steps started down the stairs toward his living quarters. Running his finger teasingly down the soft spikes on Doyle's blissed-out face, he grabbed a shirt and strode from the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him. He could hear the sounds of sluggish movement and grinned briefly to himself. Doyle would join him as soon as he got enough energy to haul himself out of bed. It had been a rather intense good morning call.

A demon with wispy hair, droopy ears and fashion sense straight from a bad episode of the Rockford Files stumbled to a halt at the base of the stairs. "Sorry for busting in like this, pal, but there was nobody outside, and the door was open, and I really need help, and they say you can help people, well, demons, but hey, we're people too, ain't we? And boy, do I need help."

In more ways than one, Angel thought, eyeing the demon's jacket, then waved a hand toward the kitchen table. "Like some coffee?"

"Yeah, please, thanks, they're trying to kill me, he's been following me forever. Nearly killed me twice already, and I was wondering, can you help? Ow, that's hot!" as the motormouth slopped coffee over his hand in his attempt to talk and drink at the same time.

Angel settled himself opposite the distraught demon and nodded soothingly. "Who's trying to kill you?"

"Could be any number of people ... I'm a truth demon, and I was in Vegas for awhile, and I kinda got on the wrong side of some people you probably wouldn't wanna get on the wrong side of, but hey, a demon's gotta make a living, you know? But I'm not really sure. Just this guy, on this motorcycle, he keeps showing up behind me, and then I get spooked and leave, and whosoever I'm with ends up deader than a doornail. Willya help me?"

The door to the bedroom quietly clicked shut, and Angel's eyes flickered to Doyle and back to the frightened demon. Doyle was standing with his back against the closed door, staring intently at the demon. He was frowning, lines between his brows, lids half lowered over intense blue eyes.

"Who are ye?" he asked abruptly. The demon spun around in his chair, almost unbalancing and falling out of it.

"Sheesh! Scare a guy half to death why dontcha?" Doyle just stared at him. The demon swallowed, looked uncertainly at Angel then back to Doyle. "Name's Barney. I'm a truth demon-"

"I heard," Doyle cut him off. "What do you expect Angel to do? Kill this guy for ya?"

The demon turned even paler, a feat Angel would have considered impossible if he hadn't seen it for himself. Barney was shaking as if he had palsy, sweating, and his eyes were pleading, going from one to the other of them as if they were the only hope he had on Earth. "Just stop him! The guy's a killer! I thought you guys helped!"

Angel hushed him absentmindedly. "We'll help." Rising and walking swiftly past Barney, patting him once on the shoulder as he walked by, he gestured toward the office. "You stay here," he directed Barney, tossing the words over his shoulder as he preceded Doyle up the stairs. Once they were safely away from those big ears, he reached over and touched the frown lines along Doyle's brow, smoothing them with a fingertip. "What's up?"

"I dunno, man," Doyle responded, leaning into the soft touch. "I just have a really bad feeling about this guy."

"A vision?"

Doyle shook his head. "Nah, nothin' so specific. Or painful."

He nodded, stepping reluctantly away from Doyle. "Stay with him while I check out this stalker," Angel asked him. "See if the feeling gets any more ... specific."

Doyle grinned at him. "Watch yersel'. I'll take care o' the weasel."

Angel grinned back, briefly, then headed for the entrance to the tunnels. Another day, another psychotic. Things never got boring in LA.

It didn't take long to track the tracker. Whoever the biker was, he was an amateur. Angel found his way to the cheap hotel room, slipped the lock easily, then rummaged through the small suitcase of tools. Stakes of various sizes, a couple bottles of holy water, a few crucifixes, a hand axe, sundry small spiked weapons -- standard vampire/demon hunting equipment. Mostly old, someone's hand-me-downs. Looked like a baby slayer wannabe looking to make a name for himself. Angel sighed. Another innocent in the middle of a war zone. The babysitting just never ended.

The door burst open behind him, not a surprise since he'd scented the human several minutes before the Grand Entrance. What could be construed, with bad lighting, as a menacing figure in black leather faced him from the doorway.

"Don't move," a low baritone voice growled at him. A small but lethal-looking crossbow was aimed at his center mass.

Of course, the figure was standing much too close, and action was as fast as thought as Angel grabbed the bow from the gloved hands, snapped a wrist behind the slender waist and dumped the Vampire Hunter on his belly on the bed.

"Wesley." He should have known. "What are you doing?" Or trying to do, he refrained from asking.

"I am a rogue demon hunter!"

Of course. Just what Angel would have thought he was. If he didn't already know he was a wuss, a poser, and a complete waste of genetic material. "Any luck?"

He could feel the human's blush from three feet away through two layers of leather.

"Yes!"

No.

"I'm tracking a very dangerous demon! He's already killed several other demons. He appears to be harvesting organs for some nefarious purpose ... I say, would you mind taking your knee from the small of my back? I could speak much more clearly if my face wasn't pressed to the bedcovers."

But then you could speak much more clearly, Angel thought with a touch of malice, but he did ease up on the pressure. Wesley managed to wriggle onto his back, then sit as upright as possible with Angel still looming over him. "He says you're trying to kill him."

Wesley's face brightened. "You've talked to him!"

Self-evident. Moron. Angel stared down at him and didn't say a word. Wesley's expression dimmed again.

"You don't believe me."

"You said you were a demon hunter," Angel reminded him. Wesley nodded firmly and opened his mouth. Angel spoke before he got the chance to start babbling again. "What do you do with them when you catch them?"

Wesley's mouth remained open. No sound came out. Angel considered this an improvement.

"You don't kill them, then?" Reasonable. Calm. Angel eyed Wesley with some interest. Would he admit it?

"... haven't actually ... caught one yet ..."

Another improvement. Honesty. He tossed the bow back to Wesley, making sure it was uncocked before he did. Wesley fumbled the catch, blushing again. "C'mon. And be careful with that thing. You could hurt somebody."

Turning his back to the thoroughly embarrassed ex-Watcher, Angel sighed and headed back toward the tunnels. Wesley, bumbling around on his turf, as well as having to put up with Cordelia. Just what he needed to make his life complete.

Completely miserable.

Thank God for Doyle.




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