// F i c //
New Year's Eve
Nothing of "Angel" belongs to me. It all belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy and Fox, the lucky bastards. No profit is being made or is intended to be made from this flight of fancy. Entertainment purposes only. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
Others may disagree with me on the exact terms of Angel's Curse here, but the bottom line is, if he can't have sex with anybody without losing his soul, we can't have slash fic, and that's just not acceptable.
Summary: It's New Year's Eve of the new millennium, and the staff of Angel Investigations has a few drinks and some fun.
New Year's Slash
Angel moved around his spacious apartment restlessly, cleaning a little, rearranging books, trying to distract himself from his own bleak thoughts. It was nine-thirty on New Year's Eve. Angel hated holidays, when people tended to gather and party. Those nights left him feeling his status as an outsider acutely. Going out to revel alone had no appeal, and he knew that even if he'd been on the streets tonight, he would have done nothing but hunt for bad guys to dispatch. He dropped into his favorite leather chair. "You need to loosen up some," he muttered to himself, mocking Cordelia's words to him earlier that day. "Right. I wouldn't know how."
He heard noises outside his door, familiar voices. He sighed and stood up. Cordelia and Doyle, no doubt come to dutifully wish him Happys and escape him quickly once the niceties were done, to go party with the rest of the human race. He snarled a little and yanked the door open before his visitors could knock.
His friends waved bottles at him. "Time to party, m'friend!" exclaimed Doyle, looking a bit shnookered already. "Ringin' in the new year an' all that!"
"Yeah," chimed in Cordelia, her eyes bright, "Happy Auld Lang Whatever!"
He stared. "Auld Lang Syne," he said, the first thing that came to mind.
"Yeah, that. Well, let us in!" ordered Cordy cheerfully, and slipped past him. "Wow, Angel, great decorations!"
"What?" Angel said blankly. "I didn't put up any - oh."
Doyle ducked in under his arm, still holding the door open. "Don't you have a television in here someplace? We got to watch Dick Clark an' all. You know, I really think that man must be undead. Do you know he's seventy years old?"
"Face-lifts," said Cordelia, from the kitchen. "Lots of face-lifts. The man is, like, a god to me. He gives me hope. Angel, do you have champagne glasses? And ice?"
"Ah, in the cabinet - of course I have ice! What are you two doing?"
"You really don't have a bleedin' television, do ya?" said Doyle, prowling, checking every nook that might conceal a television, even a tiny one. "How are we gonna know when the New Year comes in if we can't watch the big ball fall down?"
"No, I don't. Look, when the big hand and the little hand are both on twelve and the clock goes bong-bong, it's midnight, okay?"
"Oh, listen, Doyle, Angel made a funny!"
"Amazin'. Wonder what happens when we get him drunk?" the Irishman pondered, walking behind Angel, close enough that Angel could feel his body heat. Which wasn't really all that close, but still it put him off-guard. Angel was never entirely sure what to do with people who put him off-guard but weren't in the killing-and-eating category. He backed up to the dividing wall, trying to keep both his visitors in sight, as Cordelia skillfully opened champagne and Doyle circled the living room like a vulture waiting for dinner. "Can vampires even get drunk?" Doyle continued.
"Let's find out!" Cordy said brightly, pouring bubbly.
"Why do you want me drunk?" Angel asked nervously.
Doyle stopped in front of him - very close - Doyle had a tendency to stand very close to him, Angel realized with an irrational prickle of apprehension - and looked up at him with huge innocent eyes and spread his hands wide. "It's New Year's, ya big doof! You're supposed ta get drunk! It's tradition!"
"And we're here to ensure that you keep that tradition," Cordelia stated firmly.
"We'll help, o'course," added Doyle. "Provide an example and that sort o' thing."
"Look, don't you two want to, to party with, uh, your friends or something?" Angel asked, uncomfortably.
Cordelia put a glass of cool sparkling champagne in his hand. "Yes, we do," she said firmly, "that's why we're here." She handed another glass to Doyle, picked up the bottle and a third glass, and sat down in Angel's favorite leather chair, pouring champagne for herself. "No television, huh?"
Angel rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Mind the chair; you're dripping," he cautioned. He tossed her a packet of napkins from the top of the old refrigerator and took a sip of his champagne. It wasn't the best, but it was certainly not bad. "Where'd you get the champagne?" he asked, sure that neither of them could have afforded it, not on the salary he paid them.
"I stole it from my dad," Cordelia said, delicately dabbing up droplets of champagne from the buttery leather. "He'll never miss a few bottles; he had like a stockpile of the stuff. I thought you were supposed to stock up on water for Y2K, not booze."
Doyle sat down across from her on the couch. "Depends on your priorities, I guess." He grinned and sucked down his champagne noisily.
Angel gave in to the inevitable. He headed to the end of the couch closest to Cordelia and the champagne bottle, forcing Doyle to scoot over to give him room to sit. Doyle didn't slide very far away; instead of leaning against the other arm of the couch, the Irish seer elected to curl up in the middle, draping an arm over the back and letting his hand dangle close to Angel's shoulder. Angel decided the most likely explanation was that Doyle wanted to be close to the alcohol.
"Pass the bottle," said Doyle.
"You drink too fast," scolded Cordelia. "Don't you know that stuff will make you burp if you - " Doyle belched, right on cue, and smiled beatifically at her. "Eww!" she yelled. "Doyle!!"
Angel sighed dramatically. "First hell, now this." He took a larger, careful drink of his champagne, enjoying the way it bubbled and tingled on his lips. "I should drink more," he mused.
"A fine idea," agreed Doyle. "You need to loosen up some."
The clock bonged gently.
"Ten o'clock," announced Cordelia. "Only two hours left in this lousy millennium!"
"Actually, the new millennium doesn't start til next - "
"Angel, I'm going to *kill* the next person who tells me that!" Cordelia growled. "I don't *care* when the next millennium really starts! Nobody cares, okay?!"
"Uh... okay," said Angel, confused. Doyle snickered.
"And I want to spend the remaining two hours of this one getting plastered," Cordy finished, and refilled her glass even though it wasn't empty yet.
Doyle raised his glass. "To a better millennium," he said.
"I'll drink to that," Angel muttered, tapping his glass against Doyle's. Cordelia leaned forward enough to clink glasses with theirs, and they all downed their champagne with a gulp, heedless of the consequences.
"Aaaand daaayz of Auld Lang Zzzzynnnnne..." they sang together, finishing as the clock struck the last note.
"Tha's it!" cried Cordelia. "Happy new year!" She toasted them, dripping champagne, and tossed back the last of it. Angel threw a handful of napkins at her, and she clumsily wiped at the drips on his precious leather chair.
"Happy new year, princess, Angel," said Doyle, grinning. He was looking a bit more sober now than he had an hour ago, having decided that any more drinking and he would pass out and miss the magic moment.
"Happy new year, you two," said Angel, laying his head on the back of the couch and chuckling quietly at nothing. His head was feeling pleasantly light, and he was pretty sure that if he stood up, his knees would give way.
"Ang', are you drunk?" asked Doyle.
"I'm drunk," Angel affirmed. "Plastered. Slashed. Uh - sloshed, I mean."
Cordelia snickered. "You know what 'slashed' means?"
"Cut with a big knife?" ventured Angel, sitting up and reaching for his glass, intent on keeping this comfortable feeling until he passed out from it.
"No, not the *gross* meaning," said Cordelia, with an exaggerated shudder. "It means... it means... it's when somebody thinks you're having... or should be having... uhm, gay sex with a certain somebody else."
Angel aspirated champagne, choked and silently gave thanks that he didn't actually have to breathe. Doyle laid his head back, laughing uncontrollably.
"Quit laughing," said Cordelia indignantly. "I'm serious! There's like, a whole word for it in Japanese or something. It's not just that somebody thinks you're gay; it's that there's somebody in particular they think you should be screwing, somebody same-sex." She looked into her empty glass. "Oh, shoot."
Angel reached for the bottle and gave her a refill. "So let me get this straight. You think there's - that I should - you're 'slashing' *me*?!"
"I didn't say that!" Cordelia immediately defended herself. "You said you were slashed and I thought it was funny 'cause you didn't know what it meant and Kate and I do and we... ah, oops." She dabbed at the damp spot on her blouse with a wadded napkin.
"Kate?!" Angel sputtered. Doyle leaned forward and slid to the floor, giggling helplessly.
"Oh, Kate asked me - when she first met you, she totally thought you were gay," Cordelia snickered, and hiccupped. "But I told her no, you had an ex-girlfriend and I knew for a fact you'd actually slept with her and it wasn't just a front for secret gayness, and then she wanted to know if *we* were together and I said no *way*, me an' Angel, tha'd be, just *wrong*, y'know, and then - get this - then she told me she'd thought at first you were sleeping with Doyle!"
Doyle made a noise oddly like a cat coughing up a hairball. He put one arm on the couch and levered himself up from the floor, tears of mirth still on his cheeks. "Yer fuckin' kiddin' me," he said. "She said that?"
"Yep," Cordelia asserted gleefully. "So I told her if Angel *was* sleeping with you, then maybe we could get you to buy some new clothes, like, *not* at the Salvation Army, so that would be a good thing, but no, Angel's totally clueless as usual but you definitely had the hots for him, and she said she could totally see it, and I said me too, and, and, maybe I should shut up now."
Angel refilled her glass again. "Oh, no," he said. "This is great. So you think Doyle's got the hots for me, huh?" He offered the bottle to Doyle, who held out his glass this time and accepted the refill. Their eyes met and Angel couldn't stop the huge grin that took over his face at the Irishman's embarrassed expression.
"Well, I did tell 'er I was a li'l attracted," Doyle admitted. "But what d'you expect, you walking around all swirly leather coat and brown eyes-" Doyle waved his arm for emphasis, spilling some champagne on the couch. Angel growled and grabbed for napkins. Doyle started to rise, thought better of it, and settled back comfortably to the floor. "And I do not shop at the Salivation Army."
"Do too, I saw you coming out of there two weeks ago with bags of ugly shirts," Cordelia sniffed.
"Yeah? What were you doing there, then?" Doyle challenged.
"I - " Cordelia blinked, momentarily trapped, and then pointed her finger at him and crowed, "I was making a donation! I was getting rid of last season's clothes, that's what I was doing!"
"Oh yeah?" Doyle pounced. "So those tan cargo pants you were wearin' yesterday, how come I didn't see those when cargo pants were in, huh?"
Cordelia shrieked and covered her face. "Ohmigod! The shame, the horror!" She threw her wadded-up napkin at him. "You're not supposed to know what's out!" She started laughing. "And those were khaki, smart man, not tan!"
"Well, lemme tell ya, princess, khaki ain't yer color," Doyle snickered, wiping at his eyes with his shirt sleeve. "Are they cotton? 'Course they are. Tell ya what, throw 'em in a vat of black dye and maybe you can wear 'em 'til spring, yeah?"
"Oooo, good idea! Show me how?"
"'Skuse me," said Angel. "This is just marvelous, you two bonding over clothes of all things, but since I don't even know what cargo pants are-"
"They're those baggy ones with the big pocket on the-"
"-that you wouldn't be caught dead in, oh, sorry-"
"-and I don't care, either, what about this gay thing?"
Cordelia waved her glass and bubbly slashed - er, sloshed onto the leather chair. He snarled again in frustration, louder this time, and grabbed for more napkins. Cordy looked at his face as he leaned over to mop up the spill himself, and said, "Wow. You *really* like this chair, don'cha, fang-face?"
"Sorry about that," Angel mumbled, realizing belatedly that he'd slipped. He smoothed his jagged countenance back into human shape, and sent the wad of damp napkins flying neatly into a wastebasket in the kitchen.
"Two points!" cheered Doyle from the floor.
"It's harder to keep control when I'm drunk," Angel explained to Cordelia, who was looking at him askance. "It's okay, really."
"Okay," she said. "'slong as you're not gonna put the bite on me for slashing you."
Angel rolled his eyes. "No, but thanks for that glimpse into the twisted depths of your mind, Cordelia." He settled back and reached for the bottle, and found it empty. "Fuck." He levered himself up and headed unsteadily into the kitchen for another bottle.
Cordelia stared at Doyle. "Angel said fuck!"
Doyle nodded somberly. "He never says fuck. What d'ya think it means?"
Angel opened the champagne clumsily, causing the other two to startle at the small explosion. "It means, fuck, this is the last bottle," he said.
"Angel cursing, man, it could be a sign of the spock - apockalips," said Doyle. "You know, end-of-the-world, millennium-type stuff."
"Doyle, bite me," said Angel, returning with the bottle. Doyle apparently found the comment hysterically funny and sprawled back against the couch, giggling and snorting. "Can't a guy just say fuck?" Angel continued, letting his shaky legs drop him more-or-less gracefully back onto his couch. He poured champagne into his glass, very carefully.
"I think it's a Froodian slip," announced Cordelia, holding out her glass.
"You're gonna pass out," Angel warned her.
"So? Do I have to work tomorrow?"
"So. I'll pass out and sleep here, okay?"
"Okay." He poured, and she drank. "What was a Freudian slip?"
"Oh, you know," she said. "When you say something that isn't what you meant to say, but it's really what you meant after all - "
"Cordelia. I know what it is," Angel interrupted. "I meant, what, specifically, right now, was a Freudian slip?"
"Oh! You saying fuck."
"Huh? How's that?" Angel frowned.
"Because, we were just talking about slashing, you know, and Doyle thinking you're hot, and you saying fuck probably means that you secretly want to - oh, boy, I really am drunk, aren't I?" Cordelia covered her face and rested her elbows on her knees.
"Yep," said Doyle, "you really are. And I wish I was too, but suddenly I'm feelin' downright sober."
Angel turned to look at him. "You don't look sober."
"No?" Doyle's face was flushed, his eyes bright, and he looked up at Angel with a worried expression. "Then I guess it must be the stark ravin' terror bringin' me back down ta earth."
Angel grinned at him. "What are you scared of?"
"You!" said Doyle, waving one hand, the one that didn't have a glass, this time. "I mean, not that I really think you'd hurt me or anyt'in', but I really never meant for you to find out that I... and I *really* never meant to have anyone think that you're - uh..."
"Well, what anyone thinks about me isn't your fault," said Angel reasonably. He paused, deliberately waiting as Doyle took another gulp of champagne, and added, "And besides, I am."
Doyle choked, and nearly spit. "Damn it, Angel!"
Cordelia raised her head. "What?!"
"I'm bisexual." Angel shrugged. "I'm a *vampire*. Although, I kinda think I was bi even before that."
Cordelia groaned. "Have I passed out yet? How could I not know this?"
Doyle set his glass down on the floor. "You, uh, you hide it well."
"Well, I've been avoiding the whole sex thing entirely, you know, so there hasn't really been any reason to mention it."
"Right, your curse," said Doyle. "Not like I'm getting' any these days meself, but if I thought I never could again..." He shuddered.
"How do you stand it, Angel?" Cordelia burst out. "I mean, the thought that you can never... never... "
"Hold it," said Angel, holding up his hands. "Maybe I should have talked about this, actually. It's not that I can't, uh, have sex. I can."
"But you'll lose your soul!" said Cordelia. "And you can't ever risk that, and so - oh - you're so *brave* - !" She sniffled.
"I won't lose my soul from having sex, Cordy," said Angel. "Who told you that?"
"What *told*?" demanded Cordelia. "Everybody knows it! You did the deed with Buffy, and wham, bam, it's The Late Night With Angelus Show! I was *there*, remember?"
"Yeah, I know you were, but-"
"You were there when they-?" asked Doyle, his brow furrowed.
"Not *there* there, you pervert; in Sunnydale. I know what happened!"
Angel sighed. "It was being truly happy that did it, Cordelia. With Buffy, for a few moments, I felt - forgiven. As if the weight of my crimes had lifted off me. Buffy's the only woman I've ever really loved, and I knew she loved me back. I was happy. That's what cost me my soul, not the sex."
"Oh." Cordelia sat back, looking like her world had been rearranged. "Does Buffy know that?"
"Of course she does."
"Well, that sucks stupendously, then," Cordelia declared. "You can do it, just not with *her*. God, no wonder she's such a bitch when you're around!"
"She's not - well, okay, she sorta has been, lately," Angel conceded. "But I can't blame her, really. It - sucks." He stared into his glass of sparkling amber liquor, seeing the face of the young woman he'd loved past all reason, and lost for loving too much.
"Uh-oh," said Doyle. "Angst alert! He's starting to brood."
"Oh, god, no," groaned Cordelia theatrically. "Don't you dare, Angel! We're too drunk to resist the misery vibe. Don't you get us all weepy too!"
Angel raised his eyes and brought himself back to the present. Sadness clung to him, and for once, he was unwilling to let himself sink into it. "Okay," he said, "help me out. Give me something else to think about."
"Sorry, man," said Doyle. "All I can think about now is sex."
"So what's different now?" asked Cordelia smartly. "That's all you think about anyway."
"Is not," said Doyle. "Sometimes I think about fightin' evil. Sometimes I think about drinkin'." He reached for the bottle in front of Angel and poured more champagne. "Sometimes I think about havin' sex while drinkin' and fightin' evil."
"At the same time?" asked Angel, his mouth twitching into a smile.
"Yup," Doyle assented. "Bottle o' whiskey in one hand, me mighty sword in t'other, beautiful damsel wrapped around me leg like that movie poster, you know the one..."
Angel started to snicker at the mental picture. Cordelia covered her mouth with one hand, smothering giggles. Doyle rose to his knees to strike a manly pose, his glass aloft, holding his imaginary sword before him in a suggestive position. His friends broke up laughing, and Doyle relaxed back against the couch, chuckling at his own antics. "That's better," he said softly.
"M-mighty sword," gasped Cordelia happily. "Dare I contemplate what that damsel's doing down there with your mighty sword?"
Doyle winked broadly at her. "Right about that point I usually forget all about fightin' th'evil," he admitted.
"There, see," snickered Cordelia, "see, that's why Angel doesn't have sex! He has priorities! He'd rather fight evil than get blowjobs!" She wiped her eyes with a napkin and inadvertently smeared her mascara into cats-eyes. Doyle watched her, enchanted.
"Well, a good blowjob is very distracting," said Angel with a straight face, and then groaned loudly. "Please, this is too much," he said, laughing. "I never thought I'd be talking about blowjobs with Cordelia Chase!"
"Hey! I'm offended! You think I'm still a kid, don'cha, old guy?" Cordelia said, her sharp tone belied by her grin.
Angel held up his hands. "Last thing I'd want to do is offend you," he chuckled. "You run my office; I'm in your power."
"As a matter of fact, I give a damn good blowjob," said the former high school beauty queen smugly.
"Ohhh, the damsel just got a face," said Doyle happily.
She shrieked and threw a handful of crumpled napkins at him, and they fluttered to the floor around him like unfolding origami doves. "I can't believe I'm saying this to you guys," she groaned. "I have to *work* with you guys."
Angel refilled her glass. He realized he'd never thought about Cordelia that way before. The truth was, she was right; he had always thought of her as the same spoiled, na´ve teenage girl she'd been when he'd first met her. Hearing the word 'blowjob' fall from her perfect lips made him realize that the bratty ingenue he'd always patronized had become a grown woman who brooked no such treatment from anyone but him.
Angel sat back, sprawling a little on the couch, arms and legs spread comfortably wide. Doyle groaned softly and hauled himself up onto the couch. "I do not need to be on the floor right now," he muttered.
Angel gave him a quick glance to make sure he wasn't going to pass out. The smaller man was gazing steadfastly at Cordelia and didn't look at him. Angel turned his attention back to her. "Tell us more," he encouraged wickedly.
"What's to tell?" Cordelia teased back. She pushed herself back in the chair, curling her legs up under her. Her short skirt rode up, giving the two men a long glimpse of her smooth thighs as she shifted position, and a clear view of slender bare ankles and the slightest curve of hip as she settled.
Angel could feel the increased heat rising from the body slumped beside him, and he almost laughed. Poor Doyle. "Tell us how the Bitch Queen of Sunnydale High learned how to give a damn good blowjob," said Angel, with affection. "That's a story I really want to hear."
"Well," she said, playing with the stem of her glass, "of course, even when I was just a freshman, I used to date seniors and fraternity boys, and you know, it's not enough if you're totally beautiful and a great conversationalist, they want you to put out or they'll dump you and tell their friends you did anyway. And I couldn't have *them* dumping *me*, right, no way! And no way was I going to lose my virginity to some dumb fratboy who wouldn't even put a big shiny rock on my finger. So a friend of mine who was in college told me, all guys really want is to get off, they don't care how, and they like blowjobs even better than sex, 'cause they don't have to work for it. So I learned how to give the best damn blowjobs those stupid jocks would ever have, and nobody ever dumped me. Ever." She finished her story with a slurp of champagne.
"Wow," murmured Doyle, with a hint of awe in his tone.
Angel glanced at him again, and was surprised to find the young seer looking at him. Specifically, at the bulge in his jeans revealed by his sprawled posture. He realized suddenly that the earlier conversation hadn't been a joke; Doyle really was hot for him. A wicked idea came to him, of seducing the young man, and he judged himself just drunk enough to carry it through. He turned back to Cordelia, who was watching them both with half-closed eyes. "So, what's the difference between a regular blowjob and a damn good blowjob?" he asked casually, daring her with his eyes to come out and play.
She double-dared him back with a flutter of long eyelashes. "Well..." she drawled, "I'd say it's the tongue action, there, Angel, wouldn't you? I mean, you've surely had a few BJs in your life; what do you say is the crucial difference?"
"Hm," mused Angel. He thought about blowjobs, and grinned lasciviously. The heat gathering in his groin was a delicious feeling, one he'd suppressed in the company of beautiful women - and beautiful men - for many months, for years even, and he was drunk enough right now to be unable to quite remember why. "I'd say it's... boys." Cordelia's mouth dropped open, and Angel silently scored himself a point. "The best blowjobs I've ever had came from guys," he said cheerfully, as if they were talking about places to get a good rare steak.
To his surprise, Doyle picked up the ball. "And why would you say that's so, Ang'?"
Angel couldn't keep the grin off his face. He turned to his right-hand man and said boldly, "Well, mainly 'cause they can deep-throat better."
Cordelia made an evocative gagging sound. "Never, never, never! Absolute yuck!" She stood up, and Angel lunged to his feet to catch her in time to keep her from falling over. She clung to his arm for a moment, then got her legs under her and stood up, shaky but sure. "Bathroom," she muttered. He turned her around and let her go and she headed off down the hall.
"You, uh, are you going to throw up?" Angel asked after her, feeling slightly guilty for playing games when Cordelia was not in full control of her faculties.
"From champagne? Hardly," snorted the Queen, and shut the door decisively behind herself.
Angel sat back down slowly. "Guess she's okay," he said.
"She'll be fine," said Doyle. Angel turned to look at him. The Irishman's flushed cheek was pillowed on his own arm, which was again draped over the back of the couch, hand nearly touching Angel's shoulder. The hand moved slightly, and gentle fingers drew a caress up Angel's arm. "Question is, will we?"
He looked adorable, Angel decided, and abandoned his strategy for seduction as completely unnecessary. "I think we'll be just fine," he said softly. He leaned forward, bracing his right arm on the other side of Doyle's hip, gently trapping him in the curve of his body. Doyle lifted his head a little, to meet Angel's mouth with a hesitant kiss.
The sweet caress of lips lasted barely a minute, when a shriek from down the hall jerked them apart. "Cordelia?" called Doyle in concern.
"What, is the damn john haunted too?" muttered Angel.
Cordelia appeared, rubbing at her face with a yellow towel. "My god, why didn't you tell me I had mascara smeared all over my face?! I look hideous!" She glared at them, her face scrubbed clean of make-up, looking much too young for the conversation they'd just been having.
"You look lovely, princess," said Doyle soothingly.
She tossed the towel back through the door of the bathroom, heedless of where it fell. Angel ground his teeth, having a flashback to the miserable week when she'd shared his apartment.
"Can I go to sleep now? I'm-" She lost the rest of her sentence in a huge yawn.
"There you go," said Doyle. "I'm surprised she lasted this long. She's too little to hold 'er liquor."
Angel met her in the hallway, where she stood swaying on her feet, and lifted her into his arms. "Come on, princess," he said softly. "Bedtime. And no peanut butter in the bed," he added, teasing.
"I didn't," she mumbled.
"Uh-huh," he said. He carried her to his bed and laid her gently down. Doyle appeared with a blanket and spread it over her. She was already asleep. They stood and looked at her for a moment.
"Full o' surprises, isn't she?" Doyle murmured.
"Always," Angel replied, shaking his head. He turned away from the bed and laid an arm over Doyle's shoulders, moving the smaller man with him back into the living room. Doyle allowed himself to be returned to the couch and their earlier position. "Now where were we?" Angel asked softly. He'd never even thought about Doyle sexually before, but now all he could think about was the naked lust in his best friend's eyes, and the naked body under his clothes.
"I think we were - here," said Doyle, and reached up to pull Angel's head down into a kiss.
Angel wasted no time. He pressed his tongue eagerly into the willing mouth beneath his. It was wonderful, to sink into that welcoming warmth. Doyle took him in with a murmur of lust, stroking his tongue with his own, strong fingers holding his face. Angel's own hands, his lips remembered the last person who had yielded to his embrace this way, but he felt no regret. This was what he wanted, and for once he had no guilt at taking just what he wanted, gladly as it was offered. His body would not mistake this lover for his last, and he realized with relief that he didn't want to forget who was really in his arms. He would not be longing for anyone other than Doyle, his friend, tonight.
He drew away a little from that delicious mouth, allowing his partner to catch his breath. Doyle gasped, eyes closed, and muttered something that might have been a blasphemy, or might have been a prayer; Angel wasn't sure. He nuzzled his way with tiny kisses down the stubbled cheek presented to him, to the smooth skin of the pale neck beneath. Doyle's hands slid around his shoulders and held on, as he pulled his friend's smaller body close to him and pressed his face into the luxurious curve of neck and shoulder. He licked at the pulse point of the big vein there, feeling the blood rush. Once he might have been maddened by it, but now his lover's heartbeat became a thrumming pulse in his own cold body, a drumbeat counterpoint to the surge of lust that was spreading a flush like a fever over his skin.
But, he realized in a sharp instant of awareness, Doyle couldn't feel the difference between hunger and passion in his body; Doyle only knew that a vampire was pressing an eager mouth against his very vulnerable neck -
so it wasn't really a surprise when Doyle arched back with a little cry of fright, pushing him away with the hands that had a few moments ago been pulling him down.
He was stronger than Doyle, despite that the other man was half-demon, and he turned his strength gently against him, holding him still. "Easy, easy, shh," he whispered into Doyle's ear. Shuddering, Doyle pushed at him in panic; Angel could scent both lust and fear rolling off his body in waves, in time to the thundering of his heart. "Shh, it's all right, it's just me," he murmured. Doyle quieted a tiny bit, and Angel lifted his head to meet the other's frightened blue eyes. He put all the reassurance he could muster into his face and his voice. He couldn't blame him for a sudden change of heart, but he really didn't want his friend to run away from him now. He loosened his hold a little, enough to let Doyle know he could go if he wanted, holding on enough to let him know he wanted him to stay. "It's just me, Doyle; I won't hurt you. It's okay. Okay?"
Doyle drew in a deep shaky breath. "Jaysus, Angel, scare a guy, why don'cha?"
Angel couldn't help chuckling. "Sorry, I didn't mean to," he apologized. "Look, if you want to stop, I'll understand..."
"No," said Doyle, with just the faintest waver in his voice. "No, I want it, I want you; I just - forgot for a minute, that's all." His hands were still tense and hard on Angel's shoulders, and he searched Angel's face for a sign.
Angel leaned his head down, resting their foreheads together. "Breathe," he whispered.
Doyle settled slowly against him, breathing deeply to steady his rattled nerves. Angel caught each exhale of breath, drawing it into his own throat, sharing the taste and scent of Doyle's fear and passion and life. Finally, Doyle relaxed, and slid his arms around Angel again, hands splayed on his back as if to gather up as much of him as they could. He tipped his face up to Angel's, moving up the column of their shared breath to touch Angel's lips with his own. "Yes," he whispered into his mouth. "Yes, Angel."
Angel sighed softly at the words, knowing that Doyle was still a little afraid, but was willing to trust him anyway. "Doyle," he murmured, "Doyle, don't be afraid of me." He pressed the smaller man down into the soft couch, lifting up to let hips and legs adjust, fitting his body over his lover's, finding comfort and heat. Doyle caught his face again and brought him down into another kiss, this one demanding and hard, Doyle's tongue thrusting into his mouth and driving fear away.
Angel groaned helplessly, rolling his hips against Doyle's groin, pressing their erections together. Doyle came up for air with a gasp. "Oh, Angel, yeah!" Angel thrust against him again, and again, and Doyle dug his heels into the couch and lifted his hips to meet him in a perfect, perfect rhythm. Doyle arched his back, throwing his head back against the cushions.
Angel drew a hard breath at the wanton sight and dropped his face into the hollow of Doyle's throat. He knew he had to say something, to keep from scaring Doyle again, so he panted, "We're gonna come in our pants," which made Doyle snort with laughter.
"Haven't done that since I was a kid," the Irishman said breathlessly. "Might be fun."
"oh - rrr - " Angel was losing the power of speech, giving in to little growls instead. It had been so long, so damned long; there was no way he could hold back. He worried for a brief sane instant that his partner would mistake his sounds of passion, but Doyle grabbed his ass in both hands, pressing him down, and humped up hard into him, and held himself tight there, shuddering and coming and whimpering and that was it; Angel lost it and came with a yell that he muffled against Doyle's shoulder.
They collapsed together, Doyle panting, Angel half-conscious on top of him.
"Hey," Doyle managed finally, "move; I can't breathe."
Angel slid down his lover's body so that he wasn't resting his weight on the other man's ribcage, and settled down between Doyle's legs, his head resting on Doyle's chest. "Better?"
Doyle answered by petting his hair. Angel purred like a cat at the intimate gesture, and rubbed his cheek against Doyle's silky shirt. He grinned, realizing that they were both still completely clothed. "Gonna have to get you naked," he murmured.
"Likewise," Doyle mumbled back. "Jus' gimme a minute."
Angel unbuttoned the bottom three buttons of Doyle's soft shirt - it felt nice, but the color was godawful, Angel mused; maybe the man was simply color-blind? - and pressed a soft wet kiss to Doyle's exposed belly. Doyle batted lightly at his head. Angel continued the kissing, down to the waistband of Doyle's jeans. The smell of spent semen was strong and heady in his nostrils, and he felt himself getting aroused again. Vampire recovery time beat human, or even half-human, no contest, he thought smugly.
He bounced to his feet, startling Doyle with the suddenness of his movements. "Where're you off to?" Doyle asked.
"Taking care of business. Don't go anywhere," and he headed to the kitchen.
"Not a chance a' that," said Doyle lazily. Angel opened the refrigerator and snatched out a bag of food. He kept his back to his partner while he sliced it open with his teeth and drank the cold stuff directly from its container. It tasted awful, cold like that, but he didn't want to take the time to warm it up. It didn't have to taste good; besides, Angel had an appetite for something different, that would leave a much more pleasing taste in his mouth.
Angel threw the emptied bag away and stalked back to his lover. He tugged off his black shirt as he went and Doyle watched him, admiration clear in his eyes. It was good for the ego, Angel admitted to himself.
Doyle quirked an eyebrow at him. "We goin' again?" the half-demon asked hopefully. "Or you just getting' comfortable?"
"What do you think?" Angel tugged his pants and briefs off together, stepping out of the clothes with near-sober grace, and kicked them into a pile with his shirt. His cock lifted itself erect and looked around with interest. Angel grinned.
His new lover blinked at him. "Damn, you're big," Doyle muttered. Angel wasn't sure whether he meant his body or his cock, but he was willing to accept the compliment either way.
Doyle began struggling with the button on his damp jeans, still lying on his back with his shirt on. Naked and unself-conscious, Angel leaned over him, hooked his fingers under the waistband of jeans and boxers, and dragged them off with one motion, popping the zipper open and making Doyle yelp in surprise. Apparently the recovery time of a young half-demon was pretty good, too, Angel thought, looking down at his partner's already semi-hard cock, and he wondered briefly if Cordelia would find them happily expired from exertion in the morning.
He sat down by Doyle's hip and looked at his face. Doyle met his gaze with a little uncertainty. Angel didn't know if the uncertainty was caused by self-consciousness or by second thoughts. He slid his hands carefully up Doyle's sides, under the silky shirt, and let them rest over the other man's taut nipples. "Still want to?" he asked.
Doyle drew a deep breath. "Oh, yeah, I want to. Oh yeah."
"Good," Angel murmured. He moved his hands apart, tearing the shirt open and away from Doyle's body with no perceptible effort. Doyle swallowed hard and made a sound that might have been a protest if it hadn't been too late, his fists tightening on the couch. "Ugly shirt," Angel said softly, teasing, and Doyle relaxed, making a face at him.
Angel bent down to kiss his lover's soft mouth again. He felt Doyle's hands stroking his chest, lingering over his cool smooth skin. He moaned into the kiss and gently, gently bit at Doyle's lower lip. Doyle shivered, and slipped his hands around Angel to stroke up and down his back. Angel shifted his weight to one arm and stroked down Doyle's body with the other hand, pinching a nipple in passing, stroking the navel with his thumb, finally letting his hand wrap around the shaft of Doyle's hard cock.
Doyle whimpered and tried to levitate off the couch, trying to get deeper kisses and harder caresses and a handful of Angel's ass all at once. Angel lifted his head and smiled down into Doyle's wide blue eyes, his fist still slowly stroking the smooth hot shaft. He turned, sliding carefully off the couch to kneel on the floor, leaning over Doyle's shivering body, to drag his tongue up the underside of the trembling cock in his hand. Doyle moaned and caught his right hand, twining their fingers together and gripping hard. It occurred to Angel that this might be a frightening thing to do with a vampire. "You okay with this?" he asked softly, looking over at Doyle's face.
Doyle stared back with wide hungry eyes, his lips parted. "I'm good wit' it," he said in a strained voice. "Don't stop now!"
Angel smiled and bent his head again to Doyle's hot flesh. He lapped at the drop of wetness on the tip, enjoying his lover's wriggles and sounds of passion. He slid his mouth slowly down the length, tightened his lips and sucked gently, and Doyle thrashed under him. He let go of Doyle's hand, to take his lover's cock in his right hand and cup his balls in his left. His own cock hung heavy, hard and sensitive, but he ignored the need to touch, perversely enjoying the almost-pain of his insistent erection. He slid the cock he was pleasuring almost out of his mouth, pressing the soft head between his lips and pulling a gasp of delight from Doyle, then stroked the shaft a few more times with his mouth, letting himself adjust to the once-familiar feeling of another man's cock in his mouth. Finally, when the whimpers from Doyle told him the other man was about to go mad with pleasure, he arched his neck and opened wider and slid the fiery-hot cock past the ring of muscle into his throat, and swallowed. Doyle screamed through clenched teeth and came helplessly, flooding Angel's mouth and throat with bitter fluid. Angel held on, letting Doyle enjoy a pleasure impossible to experience with a breathing partner. He knew just how incredible it felt to have the firm flexing hold of another's swallowing throat on his cock while he came, and he was happy to share the ecstasy.
Doyle collapsed back on the pillow with a long groan, his lean body limp. Angel carefully released his softening, sensitive cock, and swallowed the rest of the thick cream in his mouth. It had a sharp tang, but it tasted better than cold blood - not a comparison he planned to share. He squeezed Doyle's thigh. "Haven't done that in years," he mused.
"Couldn't tell," Doyle panted. "Man!"
Angel smiled at the sight of him. He was gorgeous, with his black hair tousled and his fair skin flushed, and his blue eyes bright with the afterglow. Angel leaned forward impulsively and kissed him. Doyle chuckled, and swiped at his lips with his tongue. "Did I taste good?"
"Very good," Angel murmured against his mouth. "Sweet as honey."
Doyle snickered. "Vamp taste buds really are off, then, aren't they?"
"Just go with it," Angel replied.
Doyle sat up, leaning down to kiss Angel hard, one hand cradling the back of his head. "Your turn," Doyle said, nipping at Angel's lower lip. "We need more room."
"Too bad Cordelia's got the bed."
"Well, there's always the nice soft floor," said Doyle. He slid off the couch, pressing Angel down beneath him onto the carpet.
Angel reached out and shoved the coffee table aside to make more room. He put a little too much enthusiasm into the push, and the table skidded across the floor and banged against the far wall. "Oops."
"Don't wake Cordelia," snickered Doyle.
Angel cocked his head to listen, and heard soft snores from the bedroom. "Not much chance of that."
Doyle stretched out full length on top of Angel, holding his head still and diving into his mouth with a possessive kiss. Angel relaxed into it willingly and let Doyle take the lead. After a minute of Doyle's single-minded kissing, Angel's hard-on, trapped snugly between their bodies, was starting to make him uncomfortably aroused. "Doyle..." he murmured, around his lover's tongue.
Doyle slid down Angel's body, tasting his skin with moist open kisses, giving his cock a long wet lick from root to tip. Angel lay back with a groan. This was so good, and he had almost managed to forget how good a lover's touch could feel; he wondered if he would ever be able to bury those feelings and desires away again, and even if he really had to, anymore.
Doyle nuzzled at his balls, stroking his thighs with hard hands; Angel shuddered and dug his fingers into the carpet to keep from grabbing Doyle's head and taking his tantalizing mouth where he wanted it to go. But Doyle, thankfully, didn't make Angel wait for it. Angel lifted his head again to watch as his hard flesh sank into Doyle's hot mouth, and he almost came at the erotic sight of it. Doyle met his eyes briefly, and then closed his own, concentrating on pleasuring him. Angel continued to watch, shamelessly enjoying the sight of the other man working on his cock. He felt his lover draw a deep breath through his nose, and bit back a cry of sheer ecstacy as Doyle deep-throated him. Doyle managed to hold him there, throat spasming around his shaft, for a few seconds before he had to pull back and suck in air.
"Don't hurt yourself," Angel panted. He was shivering and on fire; he felt nearly delirious from the heat burning in his unliving body.
"mmmhmph," Doyle replied reassuringly, without taking Angel's cock out of his mouth. Doyle reached up to play with Angel's nipple, pinching ungently as he worked his throat around Angel's cock again. It was too much; Angel grunted a warning and came hard, waves of pleasure crashing through him. He felt Doyle swallowing, and closed his eyes, letting the sensations wash over him, for once not holding back. He felt his body writhing in abandon on the floor and realized hazily that this was the closest he would ever get again to feeling like a human being. When it was over and he could open his eyes, Doyle was lying beside him, one hand on his chest, smiling at him. "Feels good to let go, yeah?"
"It does," Angel whispered. Doyle leaned down to his mouth, hesitating for a moment to give Angel a chance to turn away, but Angel pulled him down into the kiss. He slid his tongue in and tasted himself in the other man's mouth. It tasted nothing like Doyle's had; it was cool and gelid, and he wondered if the taste had bothered Doyle.
"Did I taste bad?" he asked.
"Nope," Doyle said cheerfully. "Not like I expected, mind you. Kinda like - peaches."
Angel blinked up at him. "You're kidding, right?"
"Soft, overripe peaches." Doyle licked his lips. "You remember what peaches taste like?" Angel frowned hard, trying to recall the taste of peaches, then wondering if he had ever even eaten a peach in his living life.
Doyle got a strange look on his face. "Hey, uhm, I - I should've asked this before - actually prob'ly I shouldn't be asking it at all, it's not that I don't trust you, I just - uh - "
"What?" Angel asked, worried, forgetting about the peaches.
"Uhm, sharing uh, this, this isn't like sharing, y'know, blood, is it?"
"What? No, no, of course not," Angel said, relieved. "I wouldn't've done that to you."
"I know," Doyle said, relaxing and slipping down to lie curled in the crook of Angel's arm. "It's just, having sex with a vampire is kinda new for me. Still kinda strange."
"That's okay," Angel murmured. "I promise I won't do anything weird without warning you first, all right?" Doyle chuckled, then grew silent for a minute. Angel reached over himself to pet Doyle's hair. "What is it?"
"Are we - ?" Doyle sighed. "Look, whatever you want this ta be, is okay with me, you got ta know that, straight up. But I need ta know, is this something you want to go on with? Or is this a one-off for you?"
Angel turned to look his friend in the eye. "What do you want it to be?"
"Oh, no, I asked you first," Doyle said, grinning. "Someone's gotta go first, and this time it's you."
Angel looked at the ceiling. "I don't know that I want you to move in," he said carefully. "I can't - I can't risk getting that close, Doyle; do you understand? But I - I don't want to never do this with you again. This is - this is too precious to lose."
"I understand," Doyle said softly, and Angel felt that he really did; the admission had been hard for him, and he was glad Doyle had appreciated that.
He looked at him again. "You?"
"I'm not planning on taking up residence in your bed," Doyle said dryly. "But it'd be nice to know I was welcome there, from time to time."
"You are," Angel assured him. "Most welcome, anytime."
Doyle smiled against his shoulder. They lay together, comfortably silent, until Agnel felt the warmth of Doyle's body being drawn away by the air and by his own body cooling rapidly back to normal. He sat up and dragged a soft blue afghan off a chair and arranged it over his partner, tucking it carefully behind Doyle's back. Doyle looked at him with humor in his eyes. "You're getting cold," Angel said defensively. "I can't keep you warm."
"S'okay," Doyle murmured. Angel lay down again, this time laying his cheek on Doyle's shoulder. The younger man wrapped his other arm and part of the afghan around him, and after a minute, Doyle was fast asleep. Angel lay curled against him for a long time, his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of life, basking in the shared warmth of living flesh. Finally, Angel rose, to turn off the lights in the living room. He downed another bag of cold blood and stood in the entrance to his kitchen, lapping at the last drops, trying to decide if he should sleep on the couch, or move Doyle to the couch... at last he gave up, and leaving the light on the stove on for a night-light for his visitors, went back to lie down on the floor, under the blue afghan beside his peacefully sleeping lover.
Very early in the morning, Cordelia got up and wandered out for a drink of water. She found them still lying tangled together on the floor, covered with the afghan. Doyle had grabbed a sofa cushion for a pillow; Angel's head was pillowed on Doyle. The sleeping half-demon would never know that she saw, but Angel woke and watched her move with yellow eyes that gleamed in the room's darkness like a cats' eyes. Unafraid, she smiled at him from the kitchen, finished her drink and went back to bed without a word. Angel lay his head down again on Doyle's stomach, and went quietly back to sleep.