Rogue Demons

From the outside, the office of Angel Investigations looked every bit like the workplace of a vampire, Wesley Wyndham Pryce noted, staring up at the imposing, dark building which seemed to dominate that stretch of the street.

Remembering exactly how well his encounters with Angel had gone in the past gave him cause to hesitate, and he'd been standing outside for several minutes now, debating whether or not to risk going in.  But, according to Harry Doyle, Cordelia now worked here alongside that particular vampire, and that had to be one mark in the fellow's favour at least.  Overcoming his impulse to turn around and walk in the opposite direction, Wesley pushed open the doors.

The journey up in the elevator seemed unreasonably long before it finally shuddered to a halt and he stepped out tentatively into a hallway where staircases branched off to floors above and below.  The door leading off the stairwell into Angel's business premises was open, and the area immediately visible from outside was empty, although he could hear voices from somewhere.  Two distinct voices, he noted, in slightly heated discussion.  They were too muffled by the intervening walls for him to make out the words.  He craned his body around the half-open door, trying to keep his toes from crossing the threshold, but he couldn't see the speakers.

Looking into Angel's office now, he re-evaluated his opinion of the place, finding the rooms incongruously sunny, and with far too many windows to be an obvious choice as the abode of the undead.

He was tempted to wait where he was, nervous of progressing further uninvited, but he doubted Angel's business had the manpower to have somebody on duty at reception in the outer office all working hours and realised he could be waiting a long time.  So he steeled himself and headed towards the source of the voices.

The woman's voice he recognised as he drew closer.  It took his mind back to that one last wonderful night in Sunnydale before his world came crashing down around him.  And also, less pleasantly, of one hideously embarrassing parting kiss he'd rather had remained locked in the depths of his brain along with a great many other recent events.

The man's voice, on the other hand, he didn't recognise.  It certainly wasn't Angel, not unless he'd acquired a strong Irish brogue since last Wesley had encountered him.  It was an expressive voice, but with years of hard living ingrained in it.  He recognised humour in it, and a slightly defensive edge.

From the sound of things Cordelia was delivering a singularly bossy tongue-lashing to her unknown companion.  Wesley frowned, hearing that tone in her voice.  He'd been aware in Sunnydale that she had her abrasive side, couldn't have missed how she dealt with other people, but that attitude had never been aimed at him.

"So you think you're well enough to go out and get killed now, do you?" she was saying, her tone a distinct nag.  "You think one near Doyle-death experience wasn't enough for my nerves?"

"Look, Cordy," came the reply, "I appreciate all the concern but I'm all right now-" she did something that made him break off and a there was a whump sound "-ow!  Okay, so I'm mostly all right now, and was that really necessary?  Anyway, I reckon I'm close enough to all right to help out a little with more than just bloody bookwork, at any rate.  There's only so much coddlin' a guy can take, y'know... not complainin', mind, I mean there's nobody in the world I'd rather be coddled by an' all —"

"Flattery will not distract me.  You were really, really sick.  You could've died.  You still look lousy."

"Gee, thanks."

"You better listen to me, buster, 'cause that macho crap does not impress me, and if you go get yourself killed, I'll... be really, really annoyed..."  Her voice trailed off as she seemed to realise that wasn't much of a threat.

Wesley took the opportunity of the lull in their conversation to peer around the corner and tap politely on the wall.  Both occupants of the room looked up.  Cordelia was standing by a coffee machine, her companion was slouched in an old chair close by.

He was taken aback by Cordelia's appearance.  The mental picture branded into his mind was of her in that remarkable silver dress which had made her glow like starlight at the prom, and he knew fashion was important to her in some mysterious way beyond the understanding of the likes of him, so to see her now in battered denims and a shirt that looked like somebody else's was something of a surprise.  She looked somehow older, too, in a way that was nothing to do with physical aging.

"Ah... the door was open, and there was nobody on reception," he said, apologetically.  "I hope you'll forgive the intrusion."

Her mouth worked without sound for a moment.  "Wesley," she said finally, and stretched a grin across her face that he was disappointed to realise wasn't entirely genuine.  "Erm... hi.  Harry said you were in LA."

"Hello, Cordelia," Wesley said hoarsely.  She wasn't happy to see him.  He supposed that meant it truly was over.  He had known, really, that it had been over with that kiss, although the residue of their attraction had been enough to provide a few pretty memories and fantasies within all the shreds of his life the last few months.  He pulled his spirits back up with determination.  She was still his friend, or at least the closest thing he had to one in this city.  "I trust you're well."  He glanced around the room.  "This seems an unusual environment to find you in, I must say."

"Wesley?"  Cordelia's companion, a dark-haired man in shabby clothes whose pale skin did indeed have the appearance of lingering illness about it, straightened up in his seat, leaning forward to scrutinize him distrustfully with clear blue-green eyes.  He turned to Cordelia and repeated the question meaningfully.  Obviously he hadn't missed whatever they had of an 'old date' vibe.  "He knows Harry?"

"Um, Wesley, this is Doyle, he works here with Angel too.  Doyle, this is Wesley.  I knew him in Sunnydale.  He was... my prom date.  I thought I'd told you how Harry met him at her conference?"

Wesley, similarly, didn't miss the 'new date' — or maybe it was 'potential date' — vibe coming from this scruffy individual as Cordelia placed her hand on Doyle's shoulder.  He didn't look much like Cordelia's type.

"Must say, you look a little old to have gone to High School with Cordy," Doyle remarked.

"Funny man.  He was Buffy's watcher.  For a while.  He worked at the school."

"I'm pleased to meet you," Wesley said, stepping forward to hold out a hand despite his reservations.  Doyle stood up to shake with obvious reluctance.  "Any friend of Cordelia's..."  He allowed the phrase to trail off uncompleted.

He'd hoped for chance to speak with Cordelia alone, but could tell he wasn't going to get that.  Not at the present time, in any case.  He said, neutrally, "So, you're working for Angel now?  Where is he, then?"

But that was apparently not the safe, polite query he had thought.  A realisation seemed to cross her expression, and she bristled with defensive aggression.  "Harry said you were a demon hunter now," she said darkly.  "Well, you can keep your demon hunting well away from these offices.  Just so's you know — and I cannot stress this enough — Angel and Doyle are strictly no-hunting territory.  Get that?"

"I had no intention of —" Wesley began indignantly.  "And it's rogue demon hunter, actually."  He hesitated as the implications of what she'd said sunk in, and glanced at Doyle.

"Cordy!" the man — demon? — spluttered in horrified protest.  "Just 'cause I maybe neglected to divulge that particular piece of information quite so soon as I should've doesn't mean you hafta tell every stranger that walks through the door!  Especially the ones who do the demon-huntin'!"

"He's not a stranger.  He's Wesley.  And come on, I mean if he killed you by mistake, how embarrassing would that be?  Duh."

Doyle turned his gaze on Wesley with a disbelieving look that said, You dated this? and Wesley bemusedly returned a look of, You want to date this?

The connection lasted for all of a second before they each looked away, mutually irritated to have found any common ground.

It occurred to Wesley that maybe he hadn't known Cordelia terribly well.  Certainly the person he was speaking with now did not match the woman of his recollections.  From the way she was also studying him in return, quite probably neither of them had seen the other very clearly in that brief besotted time at Sunnydale.

Wesley forced his brain to return to more serious matters.  His eyes returned to Doyle.

"He's... a demon," he said, having difficulty adjusting to the fact.  The rather short man in front of him did not look terribly demonic — although he knew that meant little.  But why would Cordelia hang around with a demon?  Angel, well... Angel was an exception, or at least everyone in Sunnydale had seemed more or less to think so.  And apparently he'd got quite the reputation for helping people in LA, with this investigative firm of his.

"I'm bloody not," Doyle said indignantly.  "I'm half demon.  Difference being the half human part."

"Uh, yeah."  Cordelia's eyes flickered between them, in faint awkwardness.  Evidently it was a sensitive subject.  She waved a hand as though conjuring the matter away, and looked around, apparently for some form of distraction.  Which she found in the form of the coffee mug she held up with a dazzling grin.  "Wesley.  Do you... want coffee?"







Angel:  the Cyber Series

"L.A. Noir"
Written by Roseveare

Edited by
Cleo & Ellen

Produced by
Ellen

Based on the characters created by Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt, and the series produced by Mutant Enemy,
Inc., Greenwolf Corp., Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, in association with 20th Century Fox Television.   No
copyright infringement intended, no profit received from this work of fiction.   Story copyrighted  ©   2001 Cleo
Calliope, AtCS, and Prosephone's Lyre Productions.

This story may not be reprinted or presented in any way without express permission from the author and notification
of the AtCS production staff.



Note
Marlon the demon would like to thank his agent, his mum, the inspirational stars of all those old classics,
and the other nice people who made his guest starring role possible.







"So, you're telling me your store was robbed by... demons?" Angel repeated, unable to keep an edge of scepticism from his voice.

His client, a grey-haired, respectable-looking businessman in his forties who wore a suit with a nametag on the lapel — "Roland Bates, Store Manager" — and a stressed expression, nodded.  "That's right.  I wouldn't have believed it, and I was there, but..."  He shrugged and ran his finger along the edge of the video cassette he'd brought which rested now on the desk between where they both sat.  "Here's the proof.  The CCTV camera caught the whole thing.  They didn't seem to care, but on the other hand who could I show it to?  The police would laugh me right out of the station.  Too easy to hoax video footage these days.  It was my good fortune that I heard about you — you do believe me, don't you, Mr.  Angel?"

"It's just Angel."  He laughed quietly, and tried to change the sound into a cough so as not to offend Bates.  "Look, I do know these beings exist, although I'm not sure why they would want to go in for shoplifting household electrical goods... let's watch the tape."

He picked up the tape and inserted it into the video machine he'd brought into the office at Bates' request.  Ran through Cordelia's instructions carefully in his mind before attempting to switch it on.

The screen remained a fuzz of defiant static.  Angel shrugged helplessly at Bates.  "I'm sorry.  This machine hates me.  I'll have this in just a moment."

Bates leaned forward and stabbed a finger at the control pad on the front of the VCR and it whirred into action.

"Thanks."  Angel shuffled back out of the way of the screen as it flared into life.  In the hazy greyscale image, Mr Bates could be seen walking down a row of washing machines in an empty store with a clipboard in his hands.  The timer in the corner of the display read 11.04.  Just after closing time, Bates had said.

As Angel watched, a group of four demons of varying breeds crashed through the closed doors in the background, sending shards of glass and metal everywhere.  Something bounced off the camera lens, but it didn't harm the recording or obscure the picture for more than a second.  Mr.  Bates spun around, and looked aghast.  One of the demons gestured threateningly in his direction with four-inch claws, and its lips moved soundlessly.  Mr.  Bates stood very still as the four demons proceeded to clear out the store.

As the scene quieted again upon the demons' exit, he reached forward and flicked the off switch.  "Okay," he said.  "So demons robbed your store.  Has this... happened before?"

"To me, no.  But I did some asking around myself, when I initially thought there was nobody I could go to.  And it seems there might be others these creatures have hit.  A few reasonably large stores have shown a big discrepancy in their takings, very abruptly, like someone had just walked in and taken a chunk out and they hadn't done anything about it.  Here, I drew up a list.  It's all based on the finance and other business rumours at the moment, you'll have to go talk to people if you want to verify it."  Bates opened the briefcase which had sat quietly beside him throughout their discussion and handed over a file.

"Wow," Angel said, opening it up and staring at the pages of neat figures.  "You've been busy.  Well, I assure you we'll try our best to do something about this."

He thought about the set-up.  There were four demons on the video footage, and Bates had mentioned earlier that they had driven away in a van, which they'd used to transport the goods, which obviously hadn't shown up on the CCTV recording.  So there were at least five in this gang.  And from the organised way they'd operated on the film, Bates was right and they'd done this before.  It was a pretty major operation, then.

He supposed it was fairly clever, all things considered.  The demons would figure they could get away with this because nobody was going to be able to take their complaints anywhere they'd be believed.  There was nothing to stop them.  But still...  "Why would demons get involved in something like this?" he wondered aloud, still unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

Bates shrugged, not seeming to mind.  He evidently understood that it was a fairly odd situation.  "Beats me," he said, "but I'm willing to pay you in order to see them stopped.  You don't have to get all of the goods back, but this-" he hesitated.  "Not that getting as many of the goods back as possible wouldn't be appreciated.  I mean, I'm going to have a hell of a job claiming for insurance on this."

Angel nodded.  He hoped Doyle was feeling as recovered as he'd been insisting he was, because he was going to need him to ask around his contacts for this one.  Word of an operation like this should have gotten around the demon community, and Doyle would be able to dig out the information much quicker — and more peaceably — than he would himself.

He suppressed a smile.  In fact, he rather thought that Doyle would welcome a chance to escape from Cordelia's recent smothering concern for a while.



* * *

"Cordelia, please don't take this the wrong way, but do you have any friends that aren't dead or demons?"

"Uh... sure, Wesley."  She raised her eyebrows at him.  "Unless there's something you're not telling me as well?"

"No, no, I'm not a demon," he stuttered, awkwardly half-laughing.  "Although I'm delighted to hear you still think of me as a friend."

"Well... barely," she said, with a sappy grin.

Doyle had sat down again and was currently pretending to ignore the exchange while watching them covertly from behind the sports paper, feeling his hopes begin to sink.  Just when he and Cordelia had been getting somewhere, her previous date had to walk in and ruin it all.  And it just had to be a tall guy with a fancy accent and wearing a suit, no less.

After a few initially promising hiccups, the conversation had taken a worryingly friendly turn, as they questioned each other about their current lives and recent history, and now the pair were chatting happily away, leaving Doyle feeling forgotten on the sidelines.

Wesley sipped his coffee, frowned at it, and said, "I think there may be something wrong with your coffee machine."

Cordelia looked at the machine, lifted the lid and peered inside.  She shrugged.  "Nope, it's fine, I guess it's just 'cause you usually drink tea it'll taste funny — sorry about that, by the way.  If you're going to be coming round a lot, living in LA now, I can make sure we get some in."

Doyle choked, and turned it into a coughing fit.  Cordelia directed an 'I-told-you-so' glance at him, evidently taking it as remnant of the demonic fever he'd recently suffered.  She rolled her eyes at Wesley.  "He's sick," she explained.  "Not that he'll accept that."

Wesley nodded distractedly.  He was looking unconvinced by her theory about the coffee, shaking the cup slightly and studying the liquid swirling around within.  He took a long gulp, with an air of getting the torture over with quickly.  Doyle experienced a moment of rather evil satisfaction watching his face twist as he swallowed.  He gingerly set the cup down.

"Well, it's been good to see you.  I hope I shall see you around again sometime.  Of course, I don't know how long I shall be in LA."  He straightened his jacket and struck what was presumably meant to be a manly pose for effect, "A rogue demon hunter leads an eventful life, you know."

Doyle lifted the paper up higher to hide his smirk.

"Sure."  To his delight, the swagger seemed to pass over Cordelia's head without notice.  The guy still had some work to do in the area of looking impressive and dangerous.  "But, hey, aren't you going to wait to say hi to Angel when he's finished up with this client?  I mean, I know you got him beat up by the Watchers Council and all but I'm sure he'd be delighted to see you too."

Doyle forgot about pretending he wasn't watching them, letting the paper fall from his face in his astonishment.  Right, now he definitely wasn't liking this guy.  He hadn't heard that story before; he was gonna have to ask Angel about it.

"Um... I don't think so," Wesley said, smiling uneasily.  "I, ah, think I'll just go.  Angel must be a busy... man... now.  I shouldn't like to get in the way."

"Okay.  Hey, how about you come around this evening?  To my place.  We can talk some more, catch up on everything.  Is 7pm good for you?"

Aw, hell, that's all I need. Doyle rustled his paper pointedly in angry protest, but she either didn't get the message or she ignored it.  Either way, she made no attempt to rescind her invitation.

"Certainly," Wesley said, with a slight stutter, beaming.  "That would be delightful.  I... don't really know many people in LA.  It's been a while since I enjoyed some friendly conversation."

"Great!  I'll see you later, then."  Cordelia wrote her address down on a scrap of paper and handed it over with a smile, and Doyle felt a sick feeling in his stomach that had nothing at all to do with his recent illness.

She walked Wesley out, and Doyle listened to their muffled voices continuing their chatter for several minutes in the outside the door before finally he heard the door close and then silence.

Cordelia returned, and she looked happy.  Doyle studied her grimly.  So this was it, then.  "Well, that wasn't as horrible as I expected," she said.

"Oh, no," Doyle agreed sarcastically, emerging from behind his paper and setting it aside on the floor.  "I could tell you were just loathin' every minute of the guy's presence.  What was that about him gettin' Angel hurt?  Why'd you have to invite him over?"

"And what's that supposed to mean?  He's Wesley, it's not like I'm going to go off and get fleshy with him over a cup of English Breakfast.  Besides, I thought you wanted to lend a hand to Angel on this case.  So it won't bother you since you'll be investigating."

"Oh, so now you're all right with me riskin' my neck, now it's convenient for —"

She looked at her watch impatiently, brushing off his protest.  "Oh, god, is that the time?  Look, I really have to go back and take care of Dinah.  Phantom Dennis is very well-meaning, but I don't think it's good for a kid to be raised by a ghost, and I've been leaving him to babysit a little too often — don't you dare repeat that to him, mind, he likes Dinah and he's very sensitive about, you know, being dead."

"Yeah, and speaking of which, I could've done without you tellin' Wesley about the demon thing, too," Doyle said, unable to keep the trace of resentment from his voice.

"I'm sorry, but I for one think it's best he knows.  I mean, you go all spiky when you sneeze, for a start, and imagine if he was around to see that happen and thought 'aha!  a demon's killed Doyle and taken his place, I better dispose of the fiend'.  That would really suck, right?"

"You think that ponce could take me?" he asked indignantly.

"Oh, please.  Enough with the macho posturing already.  Besides, he might get lucky."

Doyle muttered under his breath, "So long as he doesn't get lucky with you."  Which was, in retrospect, a mistake.

She glared at him.  "I did hear that.  And since when were we even an item?  I don't recall us ever being an item.  You were sick, I looked after you.  Don't count on it becoming a theme.  You know, if I wanted to pick things up with Wesley again — and I so don't — then I could do it quite well enough without your permission, thank you."

Angel chose that moment to step out of his office.  Their new client hovered a few paces behind him, and he nodded politely to Doyle and Cordelia before the vampire showed him to the door and saw him out, repeating assurances that they'd do everything they could on his case.

"Doyle," Angel said apologetically, turning back to them once he'd gone.  "I need you to do a few things.  Nothing particularly strenuous, just research some stuff.  Ask around your contacts after recent demon activity.  If you wouldn't mind — you are all right now, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, man."  He shot a sour, disenchanted glance at Cordelia, who shifted on her feet and wouldn't meet his gaze.  He turned his own eyes firmly away from her.

Angel frowned, noticing the tension, and then sniffed the air and his frown deepened.  "Was someone here?" he asked.

"Just Wesley," Cordelia said, picking up her jacket and heading for the door.  "I have to get home to look after the munchkin.  I'll see you later.  Or tomorrow.  Oh — and I have an appointment tonight, so if any demon stuff happens, I'm so not available.  Right?"

"Uh, okay.  Cordy-" Angel began to yell after her, then sighed as the door slammed closed and he realised he was speaking to the air.  He turned to Doyle.  "Wesley?  He was here?"

"Yeah."  Doyle rolled his eyes.  "Look, man, just how close were they in Sunnydale?"

"I'm not certain.  I know it was... brief.  She thought he'd gone back to England, but apparently he's parted ways with the Watchers Council.  I shouldn't worry about it, Doyle.  I'm sure it's nothing.  In case you hadn't noticed, she kinda likes you now."

Doyle snorted, unconvinced.  "Nothin'," he repeated.  "Sure.  Let's get to work on these demons, then."



* * *

Cordelia had been surprised by how the encounter with Wesley had gone.  When Harry had mentioned he was there in LA, she had actually been dreading the possibility she'd run into him again, had been expecting it would be uncomfortable and stir up complicating things, debris of their attachment in Sunnydale.  But she'd been surprised to find it was quite the reverse.  She'd felt all that slide behind them as they talked, the baggage disappearing.

They'd both been going through stressful times in Sunnydale, she supposed, and had seen in the other exactly what they wanted to see and nothing more.  Now?  — now it was good to realise she had one more friend than she'd thought.

The day was brightly sunny, and while that might not be a good thing if you were Angel, Cordelia was enjoying it as she walked down the road which led to her apartment building, where wide gardens faced onto the street providing pleasant surroundings.  She tried to push her irritation at Doyle and how he'd made her lose her temper to the back of her mind.

She was, she had to admit, somewhat amused that Doyle seemed to feel threatened by Wesley of all people — not that there was, like, anything to threaten, because there was nothing at all, obviously, except in Doyle's imagination.

Let him sweat, she thought, as she turned up the sunny path approaching her apartment block, reaching into her purse for her keys.  He hadn't told her he was a goddamned demon for three months, after all.

And, speaking of demons —

She frowned at the specimen with the alligator-like snout which had emerged from its hiding place in the shrubbery at the side of the path.

She only hesitated a moment — and that was with surprise that the creature would approach her in broad daylight, even though nobody was looking.  She was so accustomed to thinking of herself safe in the sunlight, but of course it was only largely vampires who couldn't go out in it.  For most demons it was merely a precaution thing, against being seen.

And when she recovered her wits, it wasn't her keys that she pulled out of her purse.

She sprayed the mace into the demon's face, and when it yelped and raised its clawed hands to its eyes, she threw all her weight behind a shove that landed it in the middle of a patch of flowers.  She sprinted away towards her apartment, cursing her heels.  She thought she could still hear the demon sneezing even as she slammed the door behind her and locked it.

Her initial thought was for Dinah.  From the door of the child's room Cordelia could see she was there, sleeping.  She ran over to the little girl, paranoia seizing her, just to check she was really sleeping.  Was relieved to see her chest still rose and fell with breath, and she looked unharmed.

Cordelia dived for the phone, and it floated to meet her half-way, courtesy of Phantom Dennis.  She stabbed at the keypad, pressing the receiver to her ear and trying to catch her breath enough to talk as she listened to the ringing.

"Uh, Angel Investigations.  We help... people."

She huffed at Angel's mangling of the catch-phrase she'd thought up for them, and was about to berate him extensively for it when she remembered why she was phoning him.  "Angel!  A demon just tried to jump me outside my apartment.  In broad daylight!"

"What kind of demon?"  Angel was abruptly all business-like concern.

"Well, it looked kind of like one of the Ninja Turtles but with a big alligator snoot —"

"Ninja Turtles?"  She'd lost him.

"Jeeze!  I know you're an undead creature of the night and all, but how could you possibly have escaped — never mind.  It was a six foot green reptile with kind of a shelly armour.  And an alligator snoot.  And, apparently, hayfever."

"Uh..."

"Angel, why would this thing be after me?" she asked, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice, feeling the aftermath of shock from the sudden attack.  "Am I in danger?  Will it be back?  I mean, the door's locked and this place is pretty secure, not to mention it having Ghost Protection.  But Dinah's here too — sleeping, right now.  Is she in danger?  Is this something to do with her?  Is this something related to your case?"

"I don't know," he said, sounding a little overwhelmed.  "Cordelia, calm down.  I think you'll be safe enough for now, and if anything happens you can phone the police: the attention should make this demon scarce pretty quickly.  Doyle's already left here, and my mobility's limited in the daylight, so I'll have to take the sewers, but I'll get there as soon as I can.  I've got a video I'd like you to take a look at, and I don't think you should risk leaving your apartment."

"Huh?" She stared at the receiver in puzzlement.  "I know how I'm always telling you to lighten up already, but is this any time to be watching movies?"



* * *

"Well, I can't find any sign of a demon around here now," Angel said.  "Although, granted, I can't do as close an examination of the area as I'd like while it's daylight."

"You think I scared it off?"  Cordelia was sitting on the couch with Dinah hugged in her arms.  The little girl was wide eyed.  Earlier, when he'd first arrived, Angel had witnessed Dinah, scared by the siege atmosphere and in tears, asking Cordelia if they were coming for her — to receive the reply that if they were then she would get to watch mama kick their asses all over the apartment.

Personally, he thought that Cordelia had probably not only scared it off but psychologically scarred it for life.

"I think you should stay on your guard," he said.  "But for now, I think it's gone."

"So why would these shoplifting demons be after me, anyway?  I mean, the guy only came to us today about this case."

Angel nodded, thinking.  "Maybe it's just coincidence.  All we can tell from the tape is that this is the same type of demon as one of those from the gang.  But it could be a different demon, and this could be about something else entirely."

"Or...?"

"Or... maybe Mr Bates was followed to us?" he suggested hesitantly.  "He said he'd been investigating before he contacted us — maybe he'd aroused their suspicions.  I have to admit, the attack in daylight matches the style of this gang.  They're not afraid of being seen.  They rely on the fact that people won't believe."

"That still doesn't explain why they'd want to grab me."  She stared at him for a minute, as the realisation crossed her expression, and he winced in anticipation of the impending eruption.  "Oh, that's just great!  How cliche can you get?  They want a hostage so the fierce vampire won't splat them into little demony stains on the ground, so they just saunter over to grab the helpless girl assistant..."

"Their mistake," muttered Angel.

"Excuse me!?"

He changed the subject quickly, "Well, you've got the herbs that should keep that Kesh demon away, so you're safe enough here from him at least.  As for the rest, there's not a lot more I can do while the sun's up other than research.  Unless you feel like coming back with me to drive the car?" he added hopefully.

"What, you think I'm going to crawl through those yucky sewer tunnels with you?  As if.  And I'm not going outside alone while that thing might still be hovering around in the sunlight where you can't reach.  Anyway, Dinah needs her dinner and Wesley's gonna be here in just two hours or so and — hey, I did book this evening off, remember?"

"All right."  Angel sighed.  "I'll keep trying to trace these guys.  You'll call me if anything happens?"

"Oh, boy, yes."  She hesitated.  "Angel — what else are you worried about?"

"Not worried precisely," he said, pausing in the doorway.  "It's probably nothing.  I'll let you know if it isn't."

But, as he exited the apartment keeping a wary lookout for the demon, he thought that, his dismissive reassurances to Cordelia aside, he'd be a whole lot happier if he had some way to get in touch with Doyle.



* * *

The band of demon shoplifters appeared to have been annoyingly discrete within the demon world if not the human one, Doyle thought, as he trudged into the smoky little demon bar in which he hoped he should find the next contact on his list.  So far, all he had been able to determine were vague hints and rumours.  A couple of contradictory speculations as to where the base they were working from might be, which he'd noted down without much faith, but nothing more than that.

His next contact was more likely to know than most — but from past record, considerably less likely to tell.  Garson had given him the runaround a few times with various false reports, and the only sure way Doyle had discovered to get the truth out of him was to drink him under the table and hope he'd still have enough wits about him to ask, and Garson enough to answer, by that point.  But that was a lengthy process and one that was going to be problematic today.

He approached the counter, and it took an effort to resist the automatic impulse to take a seat and order a bottle of something.  Despite his insistences to Cordy and Angel, he still felt slightly weak and he seemed to tire easily.  He hadn't covered half the ground he'd usually manage in an afternoon yet and he was exhausted already.  If he didn't pick up the pace soon, he'd never be in time to meet Angel back at the office at 7pm to go over their findings as he'd arranged.

Not that Angel would find it particularly unusual if he were late.  He'd probably just assume that the temptation of trolling that many bars had proved insurmountable.  It wouldn't exactly be the first time.

"Hey, Gus," he said to the slime demon behind the bar, who nodded his antlered head in greeting.  "Know where Garson is?"

"In the back."  Gus pointed towards the doorway which led into the games room.  As Doyle turned to head over there, the bar-demon called after him, with scepticism, "Not ordering today, Doyle?  You ill or something?"

"Have been," he agreed mildly, without breaking his stride.  He couldn't deny, he was tempted, but he suspected that if he had even one drink, he'd be asleep in the corner.  And that wasn't really something he wanted to risk in this place, which was one of the rougher demon hangouts on his program.  In a place like this, with certain of the clientele, being a hybrid was as likely to get you beat to a pulp as if you were a human walking in there.

He found Garson in the back room easily enough.  A scruffy individual of indeterminate species, who could have been a particularly ugly human except that he stank of demon — and that was 'stank' in the completely literal sense.  Doyle held his breath as he approached the guy, who was currently playing at crashing rather unconvincing computer representations of cars on an ancient slot machine.

"Hey, Garson," he said.

"Hey."  He didn't look up from the game, eyes remaining determinedly focused on the screen.  Doyle watched over his shoulder as another digital vehicle fizzled out in an explosion of green pixels and Garson swore as the screen flashed up 'Game Over'.

"Hard luck.  Buy you a drink?"

"I guess."  He sounded reluctant, knowing very well that the exchange was, as always, information.

They returned to the main room and to the counter, where Doyle ordered and received a number of strange glances at his own request for plain water.  Which he needed, actually — his mouth fell dry and it seemed very warm in that room.

"You weren't kidding," Gus remarked with a bark of laughter.  "You really must've been ill."

"Yeah, you do look a bit pale," Garson said, as the bar-demon moved away to serve somebody else.  "Must've been serious.  What was it?"

"Uh, somethin' called... Khualah?" Doyle struggled over the pronunciation.  "Now, what I wanna ask you 'bout —"

Garson's reaction astonished him.  The demon jumped up from his seat and backed away.  "Hell, Doyle, get away from me.  I know a guy died of that."

"You do — he did?" Doyle yelped.  He felt decidedly grey at the idea, and wondered if maybe Cordy hadn't been right after all, about convalescing for a while longer.  "I thought it was just, like, demon measles."

"Look, pal, you may have grown up in a world where immunisations and medical attention were at your beck and call, but for those of us who aren't quite so human that ain't the case, and I happen not to have had that particular disease.  It's bad enough in kiddies, but in, say, the more mature demon..."  He drew one hand in a line across his throat.

Doyle swallowed.  He guessed Harry hadn't known all the facts, or she'd been playing it down, when she'd explained what had been wrong with him.  He realised that his own reaction wasn't helping and made an effort to calm down.  "Cool it, Garson, man, it's all right, I'm not contagious or anythin'.  I've been laid up with this thing for almost two weeks.  It's way past the point where it's communicable.  D'ya really think I'd be here otherwise?"

"I guess..."  The small demon returned to his seat but kind of leaned away from him as though still not convinced, avoiding any direct contact, and seeming to sway back slightly every time Doyle so much as breathed out.  "Let's make this quick, though, right?" he asked pleadingly.

"Okay.  Gang of shopliftin' demons.  Know where they hang out?"

Two minutes later, Doyle was heading out of the bar with an address, and musing that almost dying of highly contagious demonic illnesses had its hidden uses after all.



* * *

Wesley hugged close to the shadows outside the bar, nervous of the area — not to mention the demon types he had seen through a crack of visibility at the edge of the smoked-out windows.

He hadn't consciously made the decision to follow Doyle.  After leaving the Angel Investigations office, he'd hung around across the street for some time, wondering what to do with the rest of the day now.  Cordelia had been kind enough to invite him over to her place later, but until then, he didn't really have anywhere to go.  He'd seen Cordelia leave and then, about ten minutes later, Doyle had come out.  Wesley's feet had started moving without instruction from his brain, and he'd trailed after the half-demon when he headed off down the street.

He figured he owed it to her, especially since his own demon-hunting skills were not currently otherwise employed, at least to make sure her trust in this demon fellow's benign nature was justified.  Unlike Harry Doyle, he found himself quite unable to believe that any demon meant well; even Angel had had to be cursed in order to do good.  As for Ms Doyle... well, she had been tricked into marrying him — yes, he had finally made the connection between her husband's reported illness, and their shared names, while he was coming down in the elevator — and that considered she was hardly impartial.  It was only natural that she would want to believe in this creature's essential good nature.  He supposed at least he understood now why she was so fierce in her defence of demons, the poor woman.

From the people and places the half-demon had visited these last few hours, Wesley was becoming increasingly concerned that Cordelia — and maybe Angel, too — was being duped.

Take this demon bar, for example.  Wesley had watched in disbelief as Doyle walked unharmed and apparently unconcerned through the ranks of some of the most vicious fiends of the demon world, even greeting a couple of them with a brief exchange of words or a friendly pat on the shoulder.  It was impossible, he thought, that anyone who was accepted in this place should be up to anything good.

He saw Doyle stand up from his conversation with the more-or-less human looking Hraki demon — who actually seemed to be afraid of him, a fact which especially worried Wesley, knowing what that particular breed were capable of — and walk towards the exit.  Quickly, Wesley backed away from the window, tripping over the garbage littering the floor of the alley outside the bar's back door, and hid out of sight in the shadows.

A few seconds later, Doyle emerged from the bar, staggering slightly on the threshold and catching hold of the edge of the door for balance.  Yes, the effects of his illness were definitely no ruse, Wesley noted, thinking that the knowledge might come in useful.

The half-demon recovered himself and started to walk briskly away.  There was something in his manner that spoke of a job completed.  Wesley wondered what foul schemes he could have been up to.

He let Doyle hurry past and waited several seconds to allow him a good lead before he started to follow.  Although it was daylight, and a sunny evening, in all the tall buildings and narrow streets which dominated this area of the city the sun only reached the ground in thin, rare cracks and shadows were abundant.  There was no shortage of hiding places.  He supposed that would be why the demons favoured this area.

He supposed that would be why he had failed to notice the two which melted out from the shadows to block Doyle's path, although they must have been waiting there for the half-demon to come out of the bar for some time, even as Wesley had himself.

They must have known Wesley was there, too, because he hadn't made any attempt to stay hidden from other eyes behind him when he'd been peering through the windows of the bar.  But even if he was in danger, he stood there and watched dumbly as the two demons — both large, fierce creatures — jumped their clearly outmatched prey.

Doyle ducked under one's grasping, clawed hands, and the other's fist clipped the side of his head, sending him staggering.  He only just kept his feet.  But he'd managed to evade them, and he turned around and sprinted back in the direction he'd come.

There was no chance for Wesley to move out of the way.  The running half-demon crashed straight into him and the next he knew he was on the floor of the alley, with Doyle's weight sprawled across him, pinning him to the ground.  His head spun from the impact with the concrete and his vision was blurry: he reached a hand up to confirm that his glasses were gone.  Green-blue eyes stared at him incredulously out of the face that was inches from his own.  "You!-"

The next moment, he found a scrap of paper shoved into his hand.  "I don't know what the hell you're doing here, but get the hell out now and get that to Angel," Doyle growled, before rolling away from him.  With the weight restricting his movement gone, Wesley frantically felt around for his glasses, shoving the scrap of paper into his jacket's breast pocket to free up both hands for the task.  He found them and replaced them even as he pulled himself upright, preparing to make a run for it.

After all, it was what the fellow wanted, and he didn't feel much like sticking around.  What could he do, unprepared, unarmed?  And if, as he suspected, the half-demon was up to no good being here in the first place, why then he hardly merited Wesley's aid anyway.

Doyle had taken half a dozen running steps when one of the demons tackled him and brought him down again.  Wesley was astonished to see the demon haul up by the throat a spiky creature that seemed to have appropriated Doyle's clothes.  He backed away several steps, and the spiked demon's eyes settled on him and it yelled, in Doyle's voice, choked by pain and more than a little irritation, "I thought I told you to run?"

Wesley, not quite able to tear his eyes away from the reality of this creature who purported to be Cordelia's friend, nevertheless staggered backwards faster.

The demon cursed and flung the spiky creature headfirst into a wall.  The spikes and the green faded away from human skin upon impact and Doyle sagged motionless to the ground.  The demon started towards Wesley.  Its companion was already moving.

He didn't need any more encouragement to turn his back and run for his life.

But by then, of course, he had run out of time.



* * *

It was a rough awakening.  Rough hands on his shoulders — then falling, a short, dizzying journey that scrambled his senses even more than they already were.  The floor smacked him in the face at the end of it.  He lay still where he'd landed, eyes tight closed, trying to figure out what the hell was going on as a voice close by remarked, with an accent that set his teeth on edge, "I say, was that absolutely necessary?" followed by the familiar sound of a fist hitting flesh.

"Well, really..."  muttered the aggrieved voice, then subsided as a demonic growl cut it off.

Wesley Wyndham Pryce, Doyle thought disgustedly.  He remembered, now, the demons outside the bar, and Cordelia's demon-hunter friend showing up.  God knew what the hell he'd been doing there.  He also distinctly remembered shoving the address of the demon gang's base at the guy and telling him to clear off.

So much for that plan.

A heavily booted foot landed painfully in his ribs, and he couldn't repress a groan of pain.  There was a snort and a snarl of, "Get up, halfbreed."  Indignantly, he opened his eyes.

"What the f —" It was definitely a less than comforting feeling to wake up staring into the maw of a demon, and especially one grinning quite that toothily.  The demon had bald yellow skin, which was mottled with blue patches here and there.  A forked tongue hissed out between its teeth, which were... really sharp.  Like bloody needles.  Doyle hadn't the first idea what the creature was, but he was pretty glad he hadn't encountered one before and was certain he'd have been quite happy to have avoided that particular experience at all.

He looked away from it, dragging his gaze from its teeth not without difficulty.  A couple of feet away, Wesley was standing nervously, his face pale and stretched into an expression of worry and pain.  The reason for the latter, Doyle noticed with a wince, was because the demon which had a grasp on his shoulder actually had its claws sunk through the material of his suit and into the flesh beneath, little points of red soaking through his jacket.  There was a large bruise on the side of his face, but other than that the demon hunter appeared to be in marginally better condition than he was himself.

They were, he saw, in the lobby of some grand sort of house — possibly the term 'mansion' wouldn't be an unreasonable description.  Not exactly the usual sort of place you'd expect to find demons living.

The other members of the gang in the lobby were recognisable as three of the four from the video Angel had shown him, plus one middle aged human guy.  He must've been driving the van or something, Doyle figured, although his impressions of the journey there were severely limited since he'd been drifting on the surface of unconsciousness for most of the time.  As he was surveying the scene, another demon walked out of one of the interior doors that led on to the lobby.  Kesh demon, he recognised instantly.  Well, with a nose like that they were difficult to miss.

It currently had a handkerchief pressed to the end of it, which it sneezed into when it opened its mouth to try to speak.  Its eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.

"You weren't kidding," the human guy laughed.  "That dame really did do you over good.  Well, never mind, Gary, we got us the hybrid, and... whatever this goof is."

The Kesh growled something unintelligible from the depths of the handkerchief.  Wesley's expression turned positively thunderous at the description of him.

"What the hell's goin' on?" Doyle demanded, sitting up and trying to edge back from the yellow-skinned demon, only to find that his shoulders hit the wall after just a few feet.

The remaining demon in the room coughed almost politely.  The noise drew his close attention to it for the first time — and then he wondered why he hadn't paid more attention to it earlier.  It might not be the most fearsome-looking of the gang, but it was certainly... unique, as demons went.  It was also, he noted from the way the others reacted, deferring to it when it spoke, the one in charge of the operation.

Doyle took in with some incredulity the dark grey suit the demon wore and the hat drawn down low over its eyes to cast its face into shadow.  He — presumably it was a 'he' — looked for all the world like he was auditioning to be an extra in a thirties gangster movie.  He was also chewing a cigar, and when he spoke he rolled his words around it in a gruff, affected style.  "You boys would be here to facilitate our safe exit from this city," he said.  "Play nice and do as you're told and you might get out of this alive."  He chomped his teeth down on the end of the cigar and fell back into silence.

Doyle stared at him in disbelief.  He gingerly used the wall's support to edge to his feet, so he wouldn't have to engage in conversation from the floor.  "So, let me get this straight: you grabbed us so that Angel would let you get the hell out of town?"

The demon nodded smartly.  "There's power of deduction for you.  Give the man a certificate."

"Excuse me?" Wesley piped up nervously.  "But if that's the case, you've made something of an error, I'm afraid.  You see, I really don't think I should be here.  Angel hardly knows me at all, and I'm fairly certain he —"

"Keep it down over there," the leader said.  "Unless you want us to take you up on that insistence that you're surplus to requirements, friend."  At his word, the demon holding Wesley flexed its claws some, then relaxed them again when Wesley silenced.

"So you figure you can threaten us and get Angel to sing to your tune?" Doyle asked, and winced — the gangster-speak appeared to be infectious.  He had the beginnings of an idea, though.  He blurted out, "Well, if you don't mind me sayin' so, that's a real dumb plan."

The yellow-skinned demon set its claws to his throat in a lightning move.  It's claws didn't look any more friendly than its teeth.  It growled, "How about a bit more respect for the boss, there?"

"Well, it is!" Doyle squeaked, trying desperately to melt back into the wall away from those needle-sharp points.  He was definitely having doubts about this plan.  "Y'see, now you'll just have upset him — Angel — 'cause you've made it personal.  Your operation here, it's not like you're killin' and maimin' folks, he'd probably have let you clear outta town jus' fine.  But now you've grabbed his people, an' Angel's real touchy about that.  Didn't ya hear about what happened to Three-Eyed-Louis?"

"Three-Eyed-Louis?"  After an initially mystified look, Wesley caught on.  "Oh, yes.  Why, it makes me shudder to contemplate.  Nobody deserves that —"

"He made Angel lose his temper.  He, uh... he pulled Cordelia's hair!  Yeah.  Yanked a big chunk right out.  Man, you should'a heard the screams."

"Oh, yes.  The poor girl was quite distraught —"

"An' as if what she did to him wasn't enough-" Doyle noticed with some satisfaction how the Kesh demon winced in between sneezes "-then Angel..."  He let his voice trail off.

"You should have seen the result.  Or on the other hand, maybe you shouldn't.  Considering what you've let yourselves in for, it might be inappropriate to go into detail."  Wesley shook his head sorrowfully.

"Jeeze, he's usually such a calm guy, too, for a vamp.  But he just lost it.  And then Louis..."

"Terrible.  Wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"There wasn't enough left to fill a jam jar.  They never did get it all out of the walls."  Doyle shuddered dramatically, then smiled and nodded encouragingly around the circle of demons.  "Oh, yeah, Angel looks after his people.  I'd suggest you let us go right now.  Maybe you've still got time to clear out, quick like."

The four demons and the human exchanged nervous glances.  After a moment, the leader laughed.

"That was the biggest line of baloney I ever heard," he cackled, twirling his cigar in his fingers and nodding with what looked like approval, and a little respect.  "Points for effort, but if we'd just wanted to get out of town we'd have gone already.  No, we want to pull out, true enough — but it takes time, if you want to take it all with you."  An expansive gesture encompassed the elaborate house around him.  "You think we're going to leave all that we've built up here, do you?  Think we're going to go back to living in a sewer or a slum like most demons settle for?  No, my friend.  We've got standards."  He frowned at the demon which had its claws to Doyle's throat.  "Let the man breathe, Tony.  We need him breathing."  He was reluctantly obeyed.

Doyle gratefully relaxed his painfully stiff neck.  He shrugged to the demons' leader.  "Worth a try, man."  He wondered how much time they figured it would take to clear their stolen riches out with them — how long they meant to keep himself and Wesley for — and if they really intended to let them go at the end of it.

The human cleared his throat impatiently, "Can we get these guys to their new luxury accommodation now?  We've got other things to do."

"Yes," the leader said decisively.  He waved his cigar at the demons who held Doyle and Wesley.  "Show them to their rooms."



* * *

"'Luxury accommodation'," Wesley repeated disgustedly, blinking in the darkness.  The Trell demon who'd been mauling Doyle had dragged them down some stone basement steps and shoved them through a door before slamming it closed again and drawing several bolts to.  It was chilly and there was only the tiniest crack of light from a grate high up in one wall — and his eyes hadn't adjusted enough to the darkness yet for that sparse illumination to be of any use.

"Huh," Doyle agreed, from somewhere to his left.  "And I thought I told you to run," he added, with a certain amount of belligerence.

"I apologise for not being more fleet of foot than three extremely angry demons."

Wesley took a hesitant step forward and staggered on the uneven ground.  He flung a hand out, searching desperately for support, and his fingers brushed against something that felt human.  His grip tightened on a shoulder.  Half-human, then, he amended as Doyle said, "Easy there, man," and caught his arm and helped him recover his balance.

Although he'd initially suspected this was all some sort of ploy the half-demon had engineered, Wesley was forced to admit to himself that the bruises on the side of Doyle's face where the demons had propelled him into the wall were a bit too extreme for a ploy.  The note he'd tried to get delivered to Angel would seem to suggest that he'd been searching those demon bars for some purpose of the vampire's after all.  And while he still didn't entirely trust him, he was perversely glad that he wasn't alone with these... people.  It was clear that the group were certainly no friends to either of them.

"What I'd like to know," Doyle said meaningfully, "Is how you happened to be outside that bar to get caught up in this anyway."  There were several seconds of silence as he waited for a reply and Wesley swallowed, dry-mouthed, trying to think of one.  "Were you following me?"

"I-" Wesley began defensively, and stopped.  "Yes, as a matter of fact I was," he announced, beginning to get cross.  The cuts on his shoulder were smarting furiously and staining his only decent suit, which wasn't improving his mood.  He'd been beaten up, kidnapped, and now he was supposed to make excuses to a demon?  A man could only stand for so much.  "I didn't trust you.  I am not, you know, in the habit of trusting demons."

The only reply to that was a slightly annoyed sigh.

"Anyway," he added, more subdued.  "You wouldn't happen to have any powers or anything that could get us out of here, would you?  You know, turn into a demon and break the door down?"

"Doubt it," Doyle snarled.  There was a sound which was presumably his fist bashing on the door, which rang metallically in response.  "Metal frame on it.  Noticed that one as he shoved us in here.  'Sides, last I heard you were some kinda big bad demon hunter, with super watcher trainin' or somethin'.  Can't you get us the hell outta here?"

It was Wesley's turn to fall silent.  His eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness and he squinted, trying to pick out shapes.  Shelves, he thought, studying the grey outlines.  Shelves and boxes.

He picked his way through the shadowy obstacles, aiming for the window, the uneven floor under his feet treacherously trying to trip him and almost succeeding on more than one occasion.  But when he'd finally negotiated the course and his outstretched hands hit the exterior wall of the cellar, it was only to discover that when he looked up, the patch of light was placed at least half again his own height above him.  He sighed, turned around, and discovered he couldn't see anything after staring up into the bright daylight showing through the grill.

He stayed where he was, waiting for his eyes to adjust again, trying to pick out where Doyle was.  It occurred to him that anything could be lurking in the darkness around him, and he shuddered at the thought.

"A peculiar set-up here," he remarked, simply needing to hear the sound of a voice.  "Demons, living in a place like this.  That human fellow must be their front."  Although he'd entered the house with a coat bundled over his head, he'd caught glimpses of a wide, sunny street and vast gardens.  A neighbourhood with money — film star territory, even.  The demons' operation funded a life of luxury.  "And as for that Girshak demon that seemed to be in charge..."  He laughed half-heartedly at the image.

"Can't blame the guys for not wantin' to live in a sewer, I guess," Doyle said without enthusiasm.  There was the sound of scrabbling movement from the same direction as his voice.

"What are you doing?"

"Lookin' for a light switch."

"Oh."  Wesley felt his face redden, because it hadn't occurred to him to do so, but luckily it wasn't visible in the darkness.  "Erm...  Do you really think they'll let us go if Angel does as they ask?"

"I think their leader means it.  Don't know that the others'd be too happy."  There was a triumphant intake of breath, then a 'click', then a curse.  More clicks, then a long sigh.  "Bastards must've taken out the bulb.  But, as I was sayin', it's academic anyway.  That whole Louis thing might've been an exaggeration, but the truth is, Angel won't stand for a deal like this.  He'll be in here swishin' his cape an' bashin' heads — it's just a matter of time."

"You seem to have a lot of confidence in a vampire."

"He's my friend.  He's saved my arse more times than I can count.  And hey, that reminds me, what the hell was it Cordy said about you and the Watchers Council goin' after Angel in Sunnydale?"

Wesley coughed uncomfortably, hearing the dissatisfaction in Doyle's tone and remembering his own errors in the events related to that one all too well.  And what they had led to: Faith, a Slayer, a girl who should have been in his care, half-dead in a coma and probably to stay that way for the rest of her life.  "Things were... different, back then," he said weakly.  "We were different.  I, I didn't know some of the things I do now.  I thought of good and evil in absolutes, not degrees.  And Angel wasn't this helper of the helpless he is now, either.  He was — a distraction the Slayer didn't need.  An impossible distraction.  And he was a demon-"

Doyle snorted, and then sighed.  "Come on Angel, man.  Get me outta here?" he pleaded to the air in a weary, long-suffering tone.

"Of all the options I was weighing for the evening, being held captive by gangster demons alongside you was not exactly a feature on my list, either," Wesley snapped back huffily.

"No, I imagine makin' moves on Cordy was top of that particular list."  There was more scuffling sounds, and Wesley's eyes had adjusted enough to pick out the half-demon, who seemed to have started his own investigation of their prison, carefully edging around the boxes and studying the blocks of shelving.  Wesley noted sourly that he didn't trip even once, and wondered if the fellow couldn't perhaps see in the dark rather better than he could.

"What-?  I assure you, my intentions towards Cordelia are purely friendly."

"Yeah," Doyle said darkly.

"I mean, that is, that they are merely friendly.  Nothing more."

There was a silence.  Doyle appeared to be closely examining a shelf.  After a moment he said, with a strange inflection in his voice, "Uh, Wesley, do you know what this place is?"

"Well, my first guess would be a dark, smelly basement with who-knows-what hiding in the shadows."

"No, man."  The Doyle-shaped shadow shook its head.  "It's a wine cellar."



* * *

Angel paced the office, frowning at the clock on the wall.  8.10pm, it read now.  And though it wasn't unusual for Doyle to be late, in the light of the attack on Cordelia earlier he considered that this time it could be cause to worry.

The sound of the telephone broke him out of his thoughts.  He'd crossed the room in less than a second, to pick up the receiver and raise it to his ear before it could complete even half a ring.  "Doyle?"

"It's Cordelia."  She sounded worried.

It was infectious.  "What is it?  The demon again-?"

"Not a sign of the creep.  No, Angel, it's Wesley."

"Wesley?"  His brow creased at the unexpected mention of the name.  What did the self-styled 'rogue demon hunter' have to do with any of this?  "What's he done now?"

"He was supposed to be here, like over an hour ago.  And he hasn't turned up."

"Maybe he's late?" Angel suggested.

"Ha ha.  Hello!  This is Wesley we're talking about here."

"Hmm.  That's... odd.  Because Doyle's not turned up yet either."

"Uh, Angel, he was doing the pub run, yes?  Somehow I don't think the answer to that one is going to be any big mystery."

"I don't know."  He fidgeted with the phone cord.  He was slightly concerned at Cordelia's recent chilly attitude towards Doyle since the events of his illness.  She'd looked after him, true, yet she had done it in a fashion that was distanced and sometimes even more brittle than she'd been back when she hardly knew him.  "I think that since we know somebody's already been after you today — maybe there's cause for concern?"

There was a silence.  After a pause, she said, in a small voice, "Oh."  Another pause.  "Well, he might not be in danger, right?  Have you tried ringing Harry?  They've been keeping in touch — she's been supplying him with the stinky herbs and mould and stuff to help his recovery.  So maybe he popped around to her place."

"Okay.  I'll check and call you back."  He set down the phone and, after a brief search for Harry's number, dialled.  She answered after several long seconds of ringing and seemed happy enough to hear from him, until he asked her if Doyle had been by recently.

"No," she said, and the worry crept into her voice.  "He hasn't been here.  Why?  Is something wrong?  You don't know where he is?"

Angel reluctantly explained the situation.  She was worried already, and evasions at this point were not about to make her any less worried.

"Right," she said, when he'd finished.  "I'm coming over.  I'll help you look for him."

"That's not —"

"Don't you dare brush me off, Angel."  Her voice had an edge of steel in it, for all that it was delivered with the mild tone of somebody ticking off a naughty child.  "I've known him for a lot longer than you have.  I can help."

"Okay."  He gave in.  "But — I'll be over at Cordelia's.  I want her to be in on this too, and I don't want her walking over here alone, or leaving Dinah alone, after what happened earlier."

"Right," said Harry.  "I'm on my way."

Angel sighed as he set down the receiver.  He briefly contacted Cordelia to tell her what was happening, before snatching up his coat to head out to her place.

He'd barely taken two steps towards the door before the phone rang again.



* * *

Angel didn't look like a guy worried because somebody hadn't kept an appointment due to excess falling-down-drunkenness.  Her eyes followed his brooding progress across the room, as he avoided the splashes of light cast by the last of the day's sun.  She crossed to the window and pulled down the blinds.  "What is it, broody-boy?  A big dark cloud just descended over this whole apartment."

He didn't answer, just glanced towards the couch, where Dinah was sitting cross-legged and channel-hopping, pointing the remote at the TV like a weapon.

Something he didn't want Dinah to hear.  Damn...

"Uh, okay...  Dinah, honey, mama and Angel are going to go get some coffee.  You stay here and watch..."  she frowned at the screen.  "Nosferatu?"  She shrugged and pulled Angel after her into the kitchen, closing the door behind them and setting her ear to it, listening carefully for the small footsteps which would indicate they had a spy.  But Dinah was evidently engrossed.  She turned back to Angel.  "Okay, what?"

"They called."

"What... who?  Doyle and Wesley?"

"The demons.  The gang.  They've got them — both of them.  They claim that if I don't co-operate they'll kill them.  Their leader wants me to meet him to negotiate tonight."

Cordelia felt her mouth fall open in astonishment and snapped it shut quickly, trying to think through the thud of panic that slammed through her at Angel's words.  "Oh, my G- hang on, why'd they snatch Wesley?  What's he to do with any of this?  You don't even like him."

"They must've seen him leaving the office.  And, you know, I don't actually dislike him.  I mean, I'd rather not see him disembowelled for getting involved in our business."

"Check.  I definitely don't want to see any disembowelling.  Of any party, thank you."  She took a breath, trying hard to put the unwelcome visuals from her mind.  "What is it you think they want?"

"Well, if they do know that Mr.  Bates asked us to deal with them, I'd assume they probably want not to be dealt with."

She nodded slowly.  "So what are you going to do?  Go in there and kick their butts halfway to Tahiti?"

"It's... difficult."  Angel frowned.  "This gang, as far as I've been able to ascertain, they haven't killed anyone or caused any real harm.  Except to the insurance of some of the big stores in the city, who can afford it.  And, yeah, so it's wrong, but the bottom line is they're just thieves.  And I can't exactly arrest them or arrange a punishment that's proportional to their crime.  If the only other option would be killing them..."  He broke off and, after a second's pause, admitted, "If they hadn't taken Doyle and Wesley and started playing dirty, I'd probably have been tempted to just tell them to get out of here fast."

"Oh, come on — they're demons," Cordelia scoffed.

He just looked at her.

"Bad demons... oh, all right!  So what do we do?  I mean-" her voice sounded slightly choked to her own ears and she angrily tried to retain control over it.  "They've got Doyle.  Are they really going to kill him, or start chopping bits off or something?  You said they haven't hurt anyone-"

"Not yet, anyway.  But I've a reputation.  They're desperate."

"Oh."

He seemed to think hard before he spoke next.  "Do you care?"

"Excuse me?" she glared back at him in fury.  "Of course I care.  He's my friend.  Wesley is, too — you think I don't care?"

"I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly.  "I mean, you've been kind of... chilly... towards Doyle lately."

"Oh."  She turned away, examining the woodgrain on the kitchen cupboards in minute detail so she wouldn't have to look at him.  So he couldn't see her face.

"Is it the demon?"

"No.  Yes."  She hesitated, then swung back around to face him.  "Maybe, a little bit — I don't know.  It just all happened so fast, and I barely had time to think properly.  I mean, he could have died, I wasn't exactly reacting normally.  I did things I... maybe wouldn't have done, under normal circumstances."

Angel nodded slowly.  "Too much too soon."

"I know I want him back.  I don't want him hurt.  I know I'm worried about him.  But that doesn't mean anything.  He's my friend.  Of course I would feel those things.  Right?"  She searched his face, hoping he knew the answers, but he could only shake his head.

Of course.  What the hell would a guy whose only liaison in a hundred-plus years had almost brought about the apocalypse know about relationship counselling?

"I think you need to decide that one for yourself," he said.

The knock at the door disturbed the intensity of the silence which followed his words, and Angel, with visible discomfort, turned his back on her and went to let Harry in.



* * *

"I don't see how that's supposed to help us in trying to escape," Wesley said irritably.  He watched in vague disgust as Doyle finally gave up trying to uncork the bottle with his fingers or any of the available implements in the cellar, and — slightly self-consciously — turned demon and yanked the cork out using one of the spikes in the side of his face.

"It'll help 'cause I feel like crap, an' this appears to be the only anaesthetic on hand," Doyle muttered, as his face smoothed back to human and he upended to bottle over his mouth.  After a long drink, he coughed appreciatively and held out the bottle to Wesley.  "Hey, this is good stuff.  You sure you don't want some?"

He eyed the bottle, contemplating demon-germs.  "Somehow, I just don't think I do," he said flatly.  "And don't come complaining to me when the demons gut you for consuming their stores of very expensive wine.  Now, put the bottle down and see if you can reach the window if you stand on my shoulders."

"This is pointless.  They wouldn't have put us in here if they didn't think it was secure.  Besides, your shoulder's one hell of a mess, there, case you hadn't noticed."

Wesley gritted his teeth.  "I refuse to wait around in the hope that a vampire will arrive in time to prevent me being slaughtered by demons.  Now, I realise you don't like me very much and you're probably aware I don't particularly like you, but wouldn't it be nice if we could both get out of here before the demons decide to come and kill us?"



* * *

"I could use some help here," Wesley said, pointedly and slightly breathlessly, hanging from the bars of the grate and trying to find his footing on the pile of crates he'd stacked under it, which persisted in slipping away underneath his feet.

"What'd you expect?" Doyle snapped, from some distance across the room where he'd retreated to sit on a crate, nurse his new bruises and continue to consume what was left in the bottle.

"It was an accident!  You did stamp on my shoulder, which you know full well was mauled not so long ago by demonic claws..."  He felt his fingers slipping and desperately gripped harder.  His toes caught the edge of the crates and he tried to balance himself again without knocking over the pile.

"I told you, that was an accident.  I slipped-"

"Well, I slipped-" At that moment, his grip on the bars failed entirely, and for a second Wesley was balanced on one leg at the top of four large, precariously stacked wine crates.  But only for a second.  Until they started to, very slowly, topple over.  "Oh, bloody h-argh!"

"Wes?"  The irritating Irish voice floated over to him where he sprawled on the floor in a dazed, moaning huddle of pain.  "Wesley, you okay?"

"Go away, demonic scum," he moaned.

"Uh, comin' from you I'm guessin' that'd be a 'yeah'."

He groaned his way to a sitting position and looked around at the scattered crates.  He stood up, joints protesting loudly, and began to push them back into a pile again.

Doyle held up the bottle.  "Are you sure you...?"

Wesley turned on him.  He felt lousy.  There couldn't be one square inch of his body that wasn't bruised and aching.  His temper snapped.  Audibly.  "No, for Heaven's sake, I don't want a drink.  Even if I did want a drink, which would be excessively asinine considering we're stuck in this basement and likely to be killed by demonic hoodlums any moment, I wouldn't want to share it with you.  I seem to recall that's the fifth — no, sixth — the sixth time I have said as much, and now I'll tell you again, for the seventh and last time, no I do not want a bloody drink! Are we clear on the fact that I really don't want a drink?"



* * *

"Lighten up, Wes.  There's nothin' worse than a morose drunk."

"I am not... drunk.  I've barely had a few sips."

"If I were you, I wouldn't be advertisin' that part, man."

There was a brief silence as they each drank.  Wesley had gotten Doyle to open a separate bottle for him, which he'd done to the tune of an irritable tirade of "What, so ya think I'd give ya demon mites, huh?" and the like.

"What's it like?" Wesley said finally.

"What's what like?"

"What's it like being a demon?"

Doyle stared at him for a moment before letting rip a disgusted snort.  "What's it like being an asshole?" he growled back.

"No, I mean, really.  What's it like?  I never actually had the opportunity to converse with..."  He hesitated at the extremely peeved expression on the half-demon's face.  "What's it like?"

"'Really'?" Doyle said with heavy sarcasm.  He sighed and raised the bottle to his lips: downed an enormous gulp, gasped and wiped his eyes.  "It sucks, man.  What do you think?  I lost everythin' when I found out... every damn thing that'd ever mattered stopped matterin' anymore.  Wasn't human.  Couldn't live as one... couldn't live with Harry..."  He stopped abruptly.

Wesley sighed and nodded slowly.  He knew what it was like to have your expectations suddenly and drastically changed.  "Yes," he said softly.  "I see.  I understand.  I apologise for raising the subject."

"What, did you recently find out suddenly and unexpectedly that you were a demon?" came the acidic reply.

Wesley shook his head.  No, only a failure, he thought.  "No, but I was fired.  All my life, all I'd ever wanted... all my father ever wanted for me... all I'd trained for... was to be a Watcher.  And then they fired me."  He hesitated and his hand shook holding the bottle.  Maybe Doyle was right.  Maybe he was a little drunk.  He was definitely morose.  "And the worst thing is, I deserved it.  It was my fault.  Faith... that poor girl.  I failed her, failed them.  Useless..."

"Faith?" Doyle prompted.

He shook his head.  He wasn't going to go into that.  "I made some terrible decisions," he said.  "They were right to sack me."

"Now, I think you're maybe bein' a little hard on yourself," Doyle said, slightly awkwardly.  "I mean, yeah, you're an irritatin' bastard, that I can't deny, but..."

"I'm an 'irritating bastard'?" Wesley repeated sourly, with disbelief.  "I am?  Well, having spent several hours locked in a dark cellar with you, I feel I am qualified to say — that is, frankly, if you're calling me irritating, all I can say is..."  He sighed and thought about it for a few seconds before concluding, glumly, "I'm doomed."

"Drink to that," muttered Doyle, raising his bottle. They clinked bottles.  In the darkness, it proved a somewhat messy manoeuvre.  Wesley shook out a wine-drenched hand with faint disgust.

"I did mean it, you know, about Cordelia," he said, shortly.

"Yeah, okay."  Unconvinced.

"It was just one date, barely more than a flirtation.  It's over.  I... suspect that she was rather winding you up, you know.  But, I assure you, I have no designs on her whatsoever."

"She was windin' me up?" Doyle asked, sceptically.  After a moment, he allowed, "Now you mention it, she has been kinda funny lately.  Okay, I'll buy it.  But that still doesn't mean I like you."  He fell silent for a moment, then snickered.  "Heh.  Harry had a thing or two to say about you, by all accounts."

"She did?"  Wesley remembered the pretty ex-Mrs Doyle and perked up hopefully.

"Don't get ya hopes up.  Wasn't that kinda thing."  He chuckled to himself and Wesley, irritated, wondered what it was he was remembering with such glee.  Doyle's mirth didn't last for long, though.  After a moment, he squinted suspiciously at Wesley, and his expression grew visibly thunderous even in the darkness.

"My wife...?" he snarled.  "You...?"

He'd flung the bottle aside, smashing it on the floor in half-drunken rage, and was reaching for Wesley's throat when the cellar door creaked open, blinding them with artificial light from the bulb in the corridor outside.  The demon silhouetted in the doorway stared down at them and took in the scatter of bottles around them.  He turned and hollered back up the stairs to his fellows: "Shit, Gary, didn't I tell you the wine cellar was just stupid!"



* * *

Angel felt his jaw drop in astonishment at the sight of the demon which stepped out of the shadows to greet them as they drew up to the arranged rendezvous point, an alley beside a cafe.  He hadn't seen many movies, but even he recognised a walking film noir gangster cliche.

"You're late."  It was difficult to tell what kind of demon lurked underneath the hat and the dark-coloured overcoat.  The muffled growl emerged, almost inaudibly, from the dark depths between the hat and the upturned collar.

"Traffic," Angel said.  "This is LA."  In actuality, it had been the great debate with Cordelia about the necessity of somebody staying behind with Dinah, and arguing out the finer details of just who it should be, which had taken most of the time.  "Which of us studies demons?" Harry had said, quite reasonably.  "I can help."  Angel had been about to stick his neck out and agree with her when Dinah's panic attack and cries for mama had decided the matter conclusively.

The demon raised its chin from the obscuring shield of its collar and nodded slightly.  "Right.  Well... we meet at last.  Angel."  He inclined his head in a sort of acknowledgement.  He nodded at Harry, too.  "Doll-face.  Since I'm liking the view, I'm thinking to skip the complaints about you not coming alone."

"Doll-face?" Harry repeated quizzically.  Angel knew her just well enough to recognise the danger in her tone that the demon missed.  Her eyes narrowed.  "What have you done with my husband, you... you overdressed pantomime freak?"

The demon tipped its hat back slightly, revealing more of its face.  Ironically raised eyebrows of rigid scales shadowed surprisingly mild eyes that were set in a face of hard, armoured, ruddy-brown skin.  "Husband, huh?  I can't deny my disappointment, ma'am.  Which one would that be?  The half-breed?  Or English?"

"The half-Brachen," Harry snapped, and didn't mention that they were technically no longer married.  She folded her arms across her chest crossly, defensively.  Angel suspected that, after being burned twice, being hit on by another demon wasn't going to go down well at this stage in Harry's life.

He sighed, growing impatient, and made an effort to get the conversation back on track.  "What do you want, anyway?  I kind of take a dim view of people who kidnap my friends and employees, you know.  So would you care to tell me exactly what all of this is about?"

"Simple enough, my bloodsucking fiend."  The demon casually lit a cigar and spoke around it, seeming to enjoy the perplexed expressions of his audience.  "Me and my buddies, we got a good thing going on in this town.  We don't want to leave — but we're prepared to.  This is the deal: we stay off your turf, you just show a little patience while we move ourselves out.  Once we're all set, you can get your pals back nice and safe, and that'll be the last you ever see of us.  We just wanted ourselves a little insurance, you understand.  You don't precisely have a reputation for doing our kind any favours.  Kapeesh?"

"So, let me get this straight.  You want me to stand back and do nothing while you and your cronies move on to continue terrorising people someplace else?"

"Congratulations, we have a brain," the demon said, with dry sarcasm.  "Who says vamps are all dumb?"

"No deal," Angel growled.

"W-what?"  For the first time, the demon's composure was shaken enough for them to see through the act.  His voice came out in a mellow tone quite different to the affected tough-guy drawl, and the cigar fell from his hands in surprise.  Clearly he hadn't anticipated a refusal.  Then he recovered, stamped on the cigar, and the act was back.  "Angel, pal, it's a sweet deal..."

"I said no deal.  I'm not running some territorial protection racket, here.  I fight evil.  And just because I can't see it doesn't mean I'm happy to let it continue elsewhere."

"Evil?  Who said anything about evil?  Just a little stealing from the rich, is all we're doing.  As evil goes, it ain't exactly up there with bloody mutilation and murder.  And don't you care about the well-being of your friends?"

Harry was also looking at him with some concern, as though wondering whether he'd lost it completely.

"You don't have anything to gain from killing them," Angel said darkly.  "Oh — except for the part where I hunt all of your gang down and kill you, slowly and nastily, one by one.  No, I don't think you'll kill them."

Harry's gaze was shifting between them, and she couldn't have missed the hostility in their face-off.  She stepped forward, intervening, the glow of a streetlight falling full on her face.  "Can't we talk about this reasonably, without the macho posturing?"

The demon turned to look at her again, and froze.  The shadow which hid its features focused on her intensely for several seconds, before he said, slowly, "I know you, don't I?"

"What?" Harry stared blankly back.

"You."  He pointed a clawed finger at her, but it wasn't a threatening gesture.  "You're an academic.  Pro-demon rights.  I saw your presentation the other week — from the shadows at the back of the room, of course."

And he dropped the theatrical hostility in an instant, snatching up Harry's hand in both his own and proceeding to shake it enthusiastically.  "I'm Marlon," he said, with a vaguely ingratiating and wholly smitten smile.  "I can't believe I didn't notice it was you, but... well, the light was bad, and I've never really seen you very close before..."

"What... wait... stop...  Let me go!"  Harry seized back her hand and massaged her fingers, glaring sourly at the demon.  "Now, what the hell is going on?"

'Marlon' looked taken aback, as though not quite sure how to handle her reaction.

"I get it," said Angel, trying to suppress laughter at Harry's utter confusion.  "You — Marlon, you mean you're a fan?"



* * *

The demons dragged Doyle and Wesley up out of the cellar and through the airy foyer they'd been in earlier into an elaborate, plush sitting room.  There, they were flung aside with a violent shove and an angry growl of "stay there and shut up" from the yellow-skinned demon Wesley had said was a Trell.  This time, even Wesley seemed to have the sense not to kick up a fuss.

Doyle swore as he collected still more bruises from his impact with the wall.  This just wasn't his week.  He felt dizzy and light-headed and if it hadn't been for the fact he suspected he'd be feeling his bruises a whole lot more if he hadn't, he might have started regretting that drink as the fuzz of partial intoxication clouded his attempts to think.

All thoughts of strangling Wesley had been pushed to the back of his mind, for the moment at least.  Harry... Honestly, the guy was...  No.  Stop it.  He needed to focus.

Something had happened.  The demons were angry, and it wasn't just about the wine.  Something had gone wrong.  Looking around the ranks of the demons, Doyle noticed their leader wasn't among them.  He must have tried to deal, and maybe he'd discovered the hard way that Angel wasn't the dealing sort.

"We should kill them and get the hell out of here," the human guy said.  Instead of his earlier driving overalls, he was dressed now as though about to set out to some sort of formal dinner, in an elaborate velvet dinner suit, and he was nervously holding a gun.

"We're not leaving Marlon," the Kesh demon, Gary, growled from behind his handkerchief.

"Marlon's dead by now.  We have to clear out before the vamp comes to finish us."

"Easy for you to say," snarled Tony.  "You never had to live in a sewer.  We ain't going back to that."

The remaining demon, the one Doyle had assumed was mute, or at least couldn't speak English with that vastly misshapen mouth, forced out an awkward, clicking protest through a jaw clearly not designed for anything but biting big chunks out of flesh.  "Marlon-said-to-pick-up-and-go-if-something-happened."  It indicated Doyle and Wesley.  "And-to-leave-them-alive."

Doyle blinked in surprise at this policy.

"I'm not leaving them alive," the human said, his hands fidgeting unconsciously on the gun.  "They piss me off.  Especially the prissy English one."

Wesley, he noticed, opened his mouth to protest and then obviously thought better of it.

"Oh, sure," Gary said sarcastically.  "Give the Vampire Avenger a reason to chase us down across the breadth of the continent, why don't you?"

"That'd be difficult for a guy who disintegrates in sunlight," Tony pointed out.  "Guy like that needs to stick close to a home base.  I'm with Mr Hanley.  We got to deal out some payback if we're gonna quit."  He patted the human's shoulder with a clawed hand; the guy smiled tightly.  The two of them glared at the remaining two demons in an incongruous solidarity.

Doyle warily exchanged glances with Wesley, who was looking extremely worried.  The ex-watcher's eyes caught his gaze and flickered to the French windows set into the wall a few feet to their left.  Though clearly locked, they had vast decorated glass panels and only the slightest delicate ribbon of a frame.  Through them could be seen a small patio and, beyond it, the dense trees and shrubbery of a tropical-style garden.  Wesley's message was clear.

Doyle shook his head minutely in reply.  Right now, the demons were too close, and Hanley had that gun.  They'd never reach the window.  He mouthed 'wait', barely forming the words with his lips, afraid the gang would see, and he tried desperately to think through all the fog in his brain.

"In fact," Hanley said slowly, "I don't see why we should go at all.  There's four of us.  This guy's just one vamp.  We can deal with him."

"We had this conversation before," Gary snapped.  "Word is, this guy knocks 'em down like dominoes.  Marlon said —"

"Marlon, Marlon...  Marlon's gone.  Marlon always was overcautious, anyway.  The guy thought too much.  I say we run the show our way now."  Tony's claws sprang out and he took a step towards Wesley, who nervously backed off as far as he could and finished up, whether by accident or design Doyle wasn't sure, with his back almost flat against the window.

"Now, hang on a minute, I'm still not convinced this is sensible."

The remaining, unidentifiable demon gave a click of irritation, while Hanley snorted and Tony spun around to glare at Gary.  Doyle took the opportunity to follow Wesley's lead and sidle closer to the window.

"Either you're with us or against us, Gary," Tony said, with menace.

"Then I'm with."  The answer was reluctant, resigned.

"We-have-to-get-these-two-out-of-the-way-before-the-vamp-shows-up."

The demons and human exchanged glances and nodded collectively in agreement.  Hanley raised the gun, then glanced at Tony, who shook his yellow head and grinned a grin full of needles.  The message was clear.  He'd do it: he enjoyed it.

Doyle looked at Wesley.  "This is all your fault," he said belligerently.

"M-me?" he squeaked in indignant defence.  "And how is this my fault, might I ask?  They were after you.  You got me involved in all this..."

"Well, if you hadn't stuck your poncey watcher nose in..."

"Well, excuse me, but I beg to disagree.  I rather think this is all down to you, you stupid... stupid demon!  If it hadn't been for you dragging your feet, we might have escaped the cellar.  This is all your fault."

"Why, you..."  Doyle growled and launched himself at Wesley, while the demons looked on with bemused amusement.  Hanley folded his arms across his chest, leaning back slightly and enjoying the spectacle with a relaxed smile.

Doyle's left hand closed on Wesley's throat at the same time as his right closed on a nearby chair.  In a quick, violent motion, he hurled the chair over his head and through the window, and leaped after it even as the glass was still shattering outwards, hurdling the mass of jagged shards still clinging to the base of the frame, desperately throwing his hands up to protect his eyes.

He hoped Wesley was fast enough to follow before the demons caught him.

He landed hard on concrete, tripped over the broken frame of the chair: fell, and rolled.  A second later, Wesley almost landed on top of him.

They staggered to their feet as Hanley's gun went off, taking a chunk out of a palm tree less than a foot away from them.  Doyle shoved Wesley off into the tropical undergrowth and followed after him at an awkward, slightly drunken run.  He heard the demons cursing, because the sound of gunshot might cause someone to call the police, and the gun wasn't fired again.

There was a clatter of glass and a thud as somebody else jumped through the window, and Doyle ran faster, fronds of vegetation whipping at his face.  He cursed the size of the garden.  If they could just get out of there, into a public space, then they might be safe —

A weight collided with his back and smashed him face-down flat onto the ground.  He struggled, spitting dirt, trying to throw off whoever had tackled him, but they were much heavier than he, and their weight pinned him down effortlessly.

He heard a familiar snarl as he felt needle sharp claws cut into his arm.  Doyle felt the demon's breath on the back of his neck, and remembered those rows and rows of thin, spiny teeth.

"Say goodbye," Tony hissed into his ear.



* * *

The demon bar located behind the games room of its equivalent human business front was noisy, and their private negotiations were starting to resemble a shouting competition.  Angel was also uncomfortable about the way Harry was watching the group of Lamask demons playing pool in the corner, an academic interest in her eyes which made him suspect she was going to shoot over there to engage them in a detailed questioning of their mating habits or something else that would likely start a brawl.

"Honestly, Angel, I wouldn't have started this if I'd even suspected I might be able to negotiate reasonably with you," Marlon yelled, over the suddenly enthusiastic cheers of the demons watching a football replay on the television in the corner (a heavy and probably magically enhanced chain welded into the back of it secured it to the wall: this was a demon bar, after all).  Marlon was drinking a vodka martini and Angel had been wondering if he genuinely liked the drink or was just getting his references mixed up.

In a bar where human blood was served on tap, he'd resisted cravings and made a mental note to come back very soon to check how they obtained their supplies.

Harry crunched loudly on a packet of peanuts in between bouts of glowering at Marlon.

"It's just that I never expected... I mean, vampires.  Everyone knows you can't trust them, that they're touchy bastards — no offence.  And you have one hell of a reputation, you know?"

"I know," Angel said.

"I thought you were going to come after us and kill us all.  I was just buying us some time."

Angel nodded.  Cordelia, he thought glumly, wasn't going to like the direction in which their negotiations were going.  But Marlon was not evil.  Angel had seen evil — he'd been the personification of it, at his worst, in the eyes of many — and Marlon was about as far removed from that as you could get, for a demon.  Angel couldn't kill him.  And while he might have doubts about the rest of the gang — a couple of those demon types just didn't come in the 'friendly' variety — he could already see that Marlon was loyal to them.

No, if he let Marlon go, then he would have to let all of them go.  He could tell them not to start up their operation again, but he strongly suspected that at best all he would really be achieving was stalling them for a few months until they became established in a new home base.

He supposed that was something, at least.  It would have to be enough.  He wasn't an indiscriminate killer, and he knew not all victims necessarily had to be human, and not all humans were victims.  In some cases the corporations they'd robbed were bigger crooks than the demons would ever be.

"I'm willing to agree to your plan," Angel said, eventually, "With one exception: your pickings go back to their rightful owners, as far as that's possible.  And you go now or not at all.  I am not going to give you time to move out all your stolen riches at a leisurely pace."

Marlon pulled a face.  "How did I know you were going to say that?" he grumbled, sipping his martini.  But he looked as though his enthusiasm for the venture had been severely drained.  "Still, I suppose it's a better deal than you've given most who've crossed you."  He looked at Harry.  "I can't go through with my plans now.  We need people like her on our side.  I'm not going to jeopardise that."

Angel nodded, satisfied.  "Then you'll take your people and go, and release Wesley and Doyle?"

"My choices seem limited," Marlon said dryly.  "But I'm certainly not going to kill them in a petty fit of revenge and then have you redecorate the walls with my brains, so okay.  Done."

Angel stood up.  "Then we'll go get them now."

Nodding wordlessly, Marlon slowly got to his feet.  Angel wondered if he was thinking of his gang's likely reactions to his failure.

"Hold on a moment," Harry said.  Angel caught her shoulder as she zipped past him.

"But I just want to talk to —"

Angel shook his head, and Harry subsided with a huff of displeasure.

"One thing I can't help wondering, Marlon," Angel said, watching the demon draw his hat down and his collar up as they left the bar and re-entered human territory.  "What is it with the outfit, and all the, um, arch-villain mannerisms?"

Marlon looked wistful, and shrugged uncomfortably inside his enormous coat.  "Well, my ma had a TV, and I grew up watching all those movies.  You know how it is: I always wanted to be the dashing hero."  He grinned, and there was a certain bitterness in there as well as the wry humour.  "Of course, looking like this, that was never really an option.

"But if not that, maybe I could at least be the perfect villain."

He drew his collar up higher, and sneered from the depths of it, striking a dramatic 'evil' pose.  But it held even less conviction now, and Angel could tell his heart wasn't really in it anymore.



* * *

In expectation of teeth closing together through his neck, cutting through flesh and bone and cartilage and spinal cord, Doyle shut his eyes automatically.  He tried to shut his nostril's too.  Tony's breath smelled of rotting carcasses, mixed in with a faint hint of curry.  Obviously the guy liked to round off his, uh, human meals with some takeout.

Seconds passed, and there was no pain, no final snap.  He heard a grunt and the weight vanished from his back.  He cautiously opened his eyes and turned around.

Wesley let go of the unconscious demon's arm, having obviously just dragged its weight from Doyle.  The limb hit the floor with an audible slap.  Wesley looked rather surprised at himself.  He was holding a large broken tree branch and staring down at Tony's sprawled form with his mouth hanging open, jaw juddering occasionally as though he couldn't quite manage to get any words out.

Doyle struggled to his feet, feeling unsteady when he thought of just how close he'd come to death.  He grabbed Wesley's arm, shaking him out of his daze.  "Come on, man, we have to go.  There are more of them, you kn —"

A loud bang cut him off.  He spun around to find its source and froze.

Not twenty feet away, Hanley was heading for them at a run, one arm extended, the gun in his hand aimed unerringly upon the two of them.  "Don't move!" the man snapped, loud enough to carry across the steadily closing space between them.

Doyle had heard that it was a bastard to shoot with any accuracy while running, however good the gunman, but Hanley was already too near.  They might yet have another chance to get away without being killed: this wasn't it.  He kept hold of Wesley's arm to stop him doing anything rash, but all the ex-Watcher actually did was stagger in his surprise and end up sitting down in the mud with his legs sprawled out in front of him ridiculously.

For once, Doyle couldn't blame him.  Especially considering the guy had just saved his life.  He felt guilty about his earlier suspicions that behind the 'rogue demon hunter' gaff Wesley was actually a bit chicken.  Had to credit him with considerable guts to risk coming back to help somebody he didn't even like, in spite of the possibility — now the actuality — of recapture.

Close behind Hanley followed the other demon, and bringing up the rear, with the tissue still held up to his face and looking sorry for himself, was Gary.

"I think I'm gonna faint," moaned the latter as he drew to a halt, wavering unsteadily.

The others ignored him, their attention focused maliciously elsewhere.  Doyle shakily noticed Tony dragging himself to his feet, looking extremely pissed off, and he backed off a step, convinced he was about to be shot or ripped apart by claws or teeth.

"What do we do with them now?" Hanley said.

Tony ignored him and walked past him to Wesley and Doyle.  Doyle held his breath and tensed up in expectation of a blow.  To his surprise, though, the demon also passed him by without a glance.  The sense of relief he experienced lasted only an instant before he realised what Tony was going to do.

Which was to bring his clawed foot smashing down on Wesley's nearest outstretched ankle with a vengeful force.

There was no crack of breaking bone, although had the ground underfoot been solid concrete or flooring instead of mud and springy vegetation Doyle suspected there would have been.  Wesley didn't scream, but from the expression on his face it rather looked like the reason for that was he'd swallowed his tongue.  He choked for a minute, and barely seemed to have recovered his breath when Tony bent down, seized him by the throat and dragged him to his feet.

His stomped ankle gave way beneath him and he dangled by his neck.

"Hey!  Let him- " Doyle lunged at Tony, only to be batted back by a casual swipe of a clawed hand.  He fell against the other demon, who held him up by the back of his shirt.

"Let's get back inside," Tony said.  "We can't kill them out here.  If anyone heard the shots already fired, we'll have questions enough to answer."

"I have a gun license," Hanley said, aloofly.  "And a well-respected public persona.  I can tell them I was shooting at an intruder — or crows, if you like."

"That's real nice for you, but I don't want to take the risk of them finding blood traces out here if they check."  He shook Wesley, who grunted and gesticulated desperately towards his throat, clearly in need of oxygen.  "Guess you did me a favour, pal.  I wasn't thinking straight.  After all, why kill you two quick and messy now, when we can take the care to kill you slow and messy later?"  He thought about it and switched his grip from Wesley's throat to his arm.

"Thank you!" Wesley wheezed, eliciting odd looks from all present.

"All right," Tony said to the others, "Let's get them back inside."



* * *

"Maybe we could talk about this?" Wesley suggested as he was dragged back through into the sitting room, angry and ashamed at the quiver he couldn't keep from his voice.  His ankle hurt fiercely with every forced step.  If the demons on either side of him let go, he knew he couldn't stay upright.  "I mean, killing, that's a — very drastic solution, don't you think?"

"In case you haven't noticed," Tony said sarcastically, "We're demons.  It's kind of the expected thing."  He gestured to a large plush white armchair in a corner, and the demons holding Wesley flung him down into it.  Gary, as soon as his hands were free, snatched desperately for a tissue and proceeded to have another sneezing fit.

"Sorry," he said, finally withdrawing the dripping tissue from his face.

Doyle, who looked pale and edgy entering the room herded at gunpoint in front of Hanley, smirked nonetheless and said, "You guys are really not very good at this, are you?"

"It's not our fault," Gary whined defensively.  "Marlon was always the one who made the plans.  He was good at plans."  He looked upset.

The other three all glared at him.  "How many times?" snapped Hanley.  "You'd think the rest of us hadn't two brain cells to rub together, the way you talk.  Shut the hell up about Marlon.  We don't need him."

He and Tony exchanged slightly conspiratorial glances.

"He was always soft," Tony growled agreement.  "Working out ways to do stuff without bloodshed."  He made a disgusted noise.  "Some of us like bloodshed."

"Right," clicked the remaining demon, and gave an awful high-pitched snicker that made Wesley's teeth reverberate.

Hanley was also nodding.

The three turned to their captives with contemplative looks on their faces.

Wesley looked at Doyle, whose smart mouth had started this, belligerently.  "If it's not too much to ask, do you think you could possibly shut up?" he snapped.  He was trying to remember quite why he had risked his neck to save this irritating individual not ten minutes since, and couldn't for the life of him think of a single good reason.  It must have been the wine, he thought.

Doyle looked back at him expressionlessly.  "It's not as if we've got a whole hell of a lot to lose," he said.

Wesley didn't need to be reminded that the demons proposed to kill them anyway.  He recalled Doyle's earlier conviction that Angel would come to the rescue, and wondered where the vampire was now.  Angel had to have dealt with Marlon, but the delay likely meant he hadn't been able to get enough information from the demon gang's leader about where they were being held.

He supposed Angel could still be on his way, and it was just a matter of trying to keep the demons from killing them before that happened, but as he'd told Doyle, he didn't have a lot of faith in the vampire.

On the whole, he rather agreed with Doyle's assessment.  He leaned back into the white armchair, tightening his hands around its arms.  If they were going to shoot him, he'd damn well make sure his blood ruined their upholstery.

There was the clicking noise of a door being unlocked.  Six pairs of eyes fixed on the door leading into the hallway from where the noise had emanated.

"What the hell...?" Tony said.  Hanley wordlessly moved forward with his gun, and stood against the door jamb, peering around the corner towards the main entrance.

The front door creaked as it swung open.

"Guys?"  Wesley heard the familiar dry, clipped voice.  Hanley came out from behind the door.  "Ah.  Mr.  Hanley.  I hope you people haven't done anything hasty in my absence?"

A second later, Marlon breezed into the room.  He looked around, the shadows under the brim of his hat which marked his eyes taking in the situation.  Wesley glared back into those shadows when they settled upon him.  Had the fiend in fact dealt with Angel, and not the other way around as everyone had assumed?  His slim hopes were fading until he remembered that Marlon, at least, hadn't planned upon killing them.  He felt his glare transform itself into a slightly ingratiating smile, and then was cross at himself for the reaction.

The shadows moved on to study Doyle, and Marlon said, "Still mostly unharmed, I see.  Good."

"Where've you been?"  Tony's question was filled with unmistakeable hostility and no trace of relief at their leader's reappearance.  "We thought you weren't coming back."  Hanley and the other demon wore expressions of irritation mirroring his.  Only Gary appeared pleased, a wide grin spreading across his features.  Gary's grin wasn't too comforting from Wesley's point of view, crammed full as it was with rows of alligator-like teeth.

Marlon, clearly surprised by the hostile reception, said, "Guys, we need to move.  Things have gotten a little more complex than we bargained for, here.  New plan is, we quit town tonight.  Now.  With what we can carry in the van.  Leave them here."  He dismissively indicated Wesley and Doyle.  "Come on, then.  We've a lot to do."

Only Gary moved, and he froze again when he realised that nobody else had.

"What's the problem?"  Wesley felt a pang of sympathy, watching the demon look around the group, in search of some indication of loyalty, and finding none.  He knew what that felt like.  One of the things Sunnydale had taught him.  Marlon looked faintly embarrassed and slightly guarded — he looked very much as though there was something he was holding back, and Wesley could already tell that he was not going to be able to win them over.  "We'll start over.  We've done it once, we can do it again, right?  And we've time to get some stuff.  It's not like we'd be starting off with nothing, this time."

There was still no response, until Tony growled slowly, "We've made some decisions of our own, Marlon."

"We like it here," Mr.  Hanley put in.  "And we don't want to be driven out.  Not by anyone.  Not for anyone."

"And-we-like-bloodshed," added a final, clicking snarl.

"We don't need you," Tony said.

"We know you," Hanley said.  "You've made some kind of a deal.  You don't want these two dead, you'd rather we lost everything we've worked for than took a life."

"See, we always knew you'd be no good when it came to the crunch," Tony remarked casually.  "You think too much, Marlon.  That was always your problem.  Your advantage, too, of course.  It was why we let you lead us for so long.  But I think that advantage has finally worn out."  He flexed his claws as he spoke, his threatening intent unmistakeable.  He took a step towards Marlon.

"Hey, cool it a minute."  Gary stepped in his way, his expression aghast, inasmuch as a six-foot tall bipedal alligator could look aghast.  "Can we talk about-"

Tony snarled impatiently and his arm whipped out almost faster than the eye could follow.  Green blood arched across the room.  It splattered Wesley in the face.  Blinking, wiping the foul-smelling substance from his eyes, his vision cleared to show him Gary on the floor with a slice taken out of his throat, gurgling a final breath before rasping horribly and falling silent, his flailing limbs abruptly motionless.

Marlon was frozen still where he stood.  It was impossible to see his facial expression, but shock lined every nuance of his posture.

"Time to clear away the dead weight," Tony said nastily.

He lunged at Marlon in almost the same instant Marlon lunged at him.  Hanley raised the gun and tried to train it on his erstwhile leader, forgetting about Doyle, who took the opportunity to tackle him with a battle yell that sounded more frantic than furious.  The other demon moved to help Tony.  Wesley sprang up — to do quite what he wasn't sure — and fell immediately flat on his face as his injured ankle gave way.

Spitting blood and shreds of carpet, he raised his head from the floor in time to see Angel explode into the room through what was left of the French windows.



* * *

They'd agreed Marlon would go in first, to try to resolve things peacefully as he claimed he could do.  Angel, who still professed doubts as to that being possible, would wait outside, and only interfere if things looked like turning nasty.

Well, thought Harry, the current situation could certainly be described as that.  It looked like they'd arrived in the aftermath of some kind of break-out attempt.  Marlon's gang seemed already riled up, and concern and fury rose in her when she saw the bruises on Francis' face.  Hiding alongside Angel in the undergrowth outside the big French windows with their broken glass panes, she'd watched as, without warning, the yellow-skinned Trell demon killed the Kesh before anyone could so much as blink.  For a moment, even Angel had been too shocked to move.

Then, growling "Stay here", he'd launched himself forward as just about everyone exploded into action at once.

Harry watched Angel join in the fight even as the Trell demon knocked Marlon across the room with a powerful backhand swipe: his back crashed against the frame of the French windows, sending a few remnant shards of glass scattering across the paving of the patio in front of her.

Another demon leaped onto Angel's shoulders as the vampire lashed out at the Trell, and the three of them quickly became a blur of fists and feet.  Harry had never seen Angel fight before.  It was an effort to tear her eyes away to see what else was happening—

Francis, fighting the human gunman for control of the weapon, already looked tired and battered and although his expression was determined he was obviously struggling to hold back his opponent.  Almost close enough to her hiding place to reach out and touch, Marlon was trying to stand.  His hat was gone and his collar askew to reveal a face finally stripped of pretence.  Wesley Wyndham Pryce was in there too, sprawled on the floor and occasionally being trod on by the flurry of activity that was Angel and the two demons.  He appeared to be desperately trying to crawl underneath a coffee table.

Angel's shoulder, she saw, dripped blood where the Trell's claws had caught him.  He was losing and so, too, was Francis.  Marlon and Wyndham Pryce were clearly incapacitated and unable to help.

"To heck with 'stay here'," Harry muttered decisively.  She beat aside the branches that raked at her face and caught in her hair, picking her way out of the shrubbery, then through the sea of broken glass on the patio.  She made a mental note to get some running shoes for the next time she decided to help Angel out, and wondered how Cordelia ever managed to fight evil in heels.

Although the room itself was large and grand, so much frenetic activity made it small.  Harry had never been in a fight, and she was nervous of being hurt the minute her feet touched down on the carpet at the other side of the broken window, aware of how very close she was to flying fists and claws and feet.

She was peripherally aware of Marlon finally managing to stand and staggering over to help Angel, catching the Trell with a clumsy tackle which knocked him away from the vampire and sent them both sprawling across the floor until one of the white armchairs brought them up short.  The chair knocked back against some bookshelves behind it, and books and ornaments rained onto them.  Angel recovered himself and smashed the remaining demon into the wall with a snarl, and Harry was interested to see that his face had taken on its vampiric visage.

Her destination had anyway already been decided before Angel received help.  Her instinct sent her straight to Francis.

She snatched up a glass decanter from the table — "No, Ms.  Doyle, you must stay out of harm's way!" spluttered Wyndham Pryce, whom she ignored, from underneath it — and brought it crashing down on the gunman's head.

It didn't quite have the effect she'd been aiming for — the movie effect where the guy's eyes crossed and he dropped to the floor like a stone — but it did daze him enough that he stopped using Francis as a punchbag for an instant and staggered slightly.

He didn't, however, loose his grip on the gun, which remained locked between his hand and Francis'.

Harry shrieked and dropped the decanter as he angrily turned on her.

Francis saw her over the gunman's shoulder and his eyes widened.  "What're you doin' here?" he yelped.

"Saving your butt!" Harry snapped — and tried to back out of reach as the gunman lashed out with his free hand and his fingers tightened in the collar of her shirt.  "Francis!"

Francis renewed his attack on the guy as though he'd suddenly been granted superpowers, surging forward, his weight peeling the gunman's hand from her and dragging both men to the floor.  Two loud bangs split the air.  Harry backed away, afraid of the gun still clutched in both their outstretched hands.  She tracked its aim and was relieved to see it hadn't damaged anything more than plaster.

Another bang, and another chunk of plaster fell from the wall perilously close to Angel and Marlon.  Watching them, even she could tell Marlon wasn't much of a fighter, but his efforts were providing a distraction to allow Angel to handle the other demon.

The gun fired again and Marlon fell.  He hit the ground, the shoulder of his coat already stained red.

Harry took a breath, drew back her foot, and stomped down on the two outstretched wrists on the ground in front of her.

The gunman screamed.  "Argh, you bitch!"

Francis choked out more or less the same thing.

She kicked the gun they'd loosed out of reach, not wanting to risk the wrong person regaining it.  It slid across the floor in front of Wesley Wyndham Pryce, whose eyes widened.  He started crawling after it.

Spitting curses, the gunman lunged at Harry's ankles, pulling her to the floor.  Her arms caught the coffee table behind her and she held herself half-upright, flailing with one hand for something — anything — she could use as a weapon, while with the other she tried to support her weight against his efforts to drag her down the rest of the way.

But she didn't need to worry.  Francis clouted the guy at the base of his skull with a vicious jab of an elbow, and the blow had the effect she'd hoped her decanter would.

"Bastard," Francis said.  He looked up at her aggrievedly.  "What the hell was that for, anyway?"

"I'm sorry," she said, wincing.  "I couldn't hit him without hitting you, and the gun..."  She abruptly remembered the event which had prompted her urgent action.  "Marlon!"  She grabbed her ex's arm, hauling him to his feet.  "Help me help him, Francis."

Marlon was slumped against the wall, awkwardly trying to stand using the wall for support but each time failing and sliding down it again, new blood all the time adding to the red patch on his coat's shoulder.  There was a long streak of red visible on the magnolia-painted surface of the wall.

He was worryingly close to where the remaining demons were now concentrating their attack on Angel.  It would be a matter of ease for either of them to slash out with their claws and tear his throat out while he was helpless.

"Help him?" Francis repeated.  "I thought he was the bad guy.  I mean, didn't you notice his dress sense, for a start?"

Harry glared.  "Don't argue with me, Francis."



* * *

Sweeping a kick towards the ankles of the demon on his right; ducking underneath a vicious, clawed slash from the one in front; coming back around just in time to avoid the retaliation of the first demon, who'd evaded the kick — an open-palmed jab backed by a handful of six-inch claws which would have opened up his midriff as effectively as a handful of knives had the blow landed — Angel swayed in the rhythm of the fight.

The two demons were tough, brutal fighters, naturally savage.  Apparently Marlon's leadership had kept them on a short reign, and only now were they finally having chance to vent.

He was uncomfortably aware of how much he was fighting on the defensive: that he would never beat them like this.  But they were clearly accustomed to working together, forged as a team under Marlon's leadership, and together they were relentless.

He was worried about Marlon, who had helped them even as his allies abandoned him, and who now bled steadily onto the carpet for his troubles.  He was also less than happy that Harry had followed him into the middle of the fight.  But he was grateful nonetheless as, between ducking and weaving, punches and kicks, he caught skewed glimpses of Harry and Doyle darting through an opening in the combat to grab Marlon and drag him out of harm's way into a corner, where Harry tore off her jacket and pressed it against the gunshot wound to stem the blood flow.

Angel fluffed a block and the yellow-skinned Trell's claws tore a line of agony across his chest.  He resisted the impulse to look down, but knew the cut was deep.  Could already feel blood trickling down between shirt and skin, gumming cloth to flesh.  The Trell snarled in satisfaction, the edges of its mouth curling up in a nasty grin.

Pre-warned by that and by his own instincts, Angel whipped around an arm to block a slash at his neck from the other demon.  The next few minutes disappeared into a continuous blur of violent activity as both demons pressed the attack harder, encouraged by their success.  Angel picked up a myriad of smaller injuries, and dealt out but a few in return.

Behind the Trell, Doyle was hovering with a large ornamental vase nervously poised in his hands.  But the opening he was waiting for refused to present itself.  He kept darting forward and then faltering and dropping back as the combatants moved too quickly once again.  The cramped space and the hampering furniture worked against him.

It went on like that until a clawed hand broke through Angel's defence in a quick stab towards his throat.

Angel tried to duck, knowing that, even as fast as he was, he wasn't going to be fast enough.  Knowing, also, that Doyle could do nothing, and everyone else was too far away.  And that if he was killed or crippled severely enough that he couldn't fight, then those remaining wouldn't stand a chance.

A shot rang out, and the demon collapsed.  Its claws drew four superficial scratches across Angel's throat on the way down.

Angel looked across the room to see Wesley Wyndham Pryce crouched on the floor, with Hanley's gun clutched white-knuckled in his outstretched hand.



* * *

Wesley pulled the trigger.  The demon fell and Angel turned to stare at him in incredulity in the instant before Tony snarled and hurled himself at the vampire in fury.  As the pair resumed their altercation, and Doyle too threw himself into the fray, Wesley was horrified to see the demon he'd shot staggering back upright and lurching towards him with its already ugly features twisted even more gruesomely in its dying anger.  And there was no doubt it was dying.  The wound in its neck was pouring orange blood at a sickening rate, it was just taking its time to kill.  Leaving the demon with enough life to make sure it put an end to Wesley's.

Wesley tightened his finger on the trigger again and... nothing.

Again.  Nothing but a dull click.  Again.

Click.

The damned, sodding, useless, bloody gun was out of bullets...

He threw the gun aside and looked around for anything he might use as a weapon.  The decanter Harry had used earlier lay on the floor some feet away, stubbornly unbroken although it had a hair-thin crack running down one side.  He lunged for it but came up short by inches, and then it was too late.  The demon was upon him, seizing him by the throat, dripping orange blood onto his suit.

The world began to gray, his awareness of it limited to the pressure on his throat as the demon's hands squeezed and its claws dug into the back of its neck.  Wesley's life flashed before his eyes.  A life of failures: his father's disapproval, Buffy and her friends' scorn, the Watchers Council as they fired him, Faith—

It was no wonder none of them wanted him around, he thought bitterly.  He'd made such a mess of everything.  It occurred to him with no small amount of sour irony that now he was about to die as a consequence of saving a vampire.  Couldn't even do death right.

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry... He focused on the thought like a mantra.  Faith.  His Father.  Buffy.  The Council.  The people he'd never now have a chance to make up for failing.

Someone ripped the demon away from him with a snarl of fury, and his vision cleared slightly as Angel hurled the creature against the wall.  It hit the wall, hit the ground, and lay still.

"Th-thank you!" Wesley stammered, too grateful at that moment to resent being saved by a vampire, or even to find that strange in any way.  But Angel didn't even seem to hear him.  He turned his attention back to Tony and so did Wesley — in time to see Doyle reeling away from the Trell and crashing into Harry and Marlon where they huddled in the corner.

Harry pulled Doyle back down as the half-demon tried to return to the fight and Wesley heard her say, "Hush.  Angel has it."

Angel did indeed have it.  Wesley crawled awkwardly over to join the others as the vampire ended the fight with a decisive twist of Tony's neck.



* * *

"Well, I'm glad that's over," Doyle said raggedly.

Wesley remained too breathless with his astonishment at still being alive to speak.  Wordlessly, he looked around the group.  Ms.  Doyle with her frizzy hair all askew and her face flushed with exertion (he found it hard to look away from her, having to fight his eyes' temptation to linger); Doyle, breathing hard, looking battered and swaying from exhaustion and lingering alcohol as he climbed to his feet to help Angel; Angel, staggering and bleeding, leaning against the shoulder Doyle offered for support.

Then there was Marlon, the demon who'd caused his recent ordeal, whom Wesley didn't know what to make of at all.  He'd helped them during the fight, and Harry had helped him back, had seemed to regard him as an ally.  Marlon was now half unconscious.

Harry looked up from attending to the demon's injury, and her eyes went straight to Angel.  There was no doubt who was the leader here.  She said, "We need to clean and bind the injury.  I don't suppose we can take him to a hospital for proper medical attention."

Angel nodded and, leaving Doyle's support, dragged himself off out of the room, returning a moment later to offer Harry household antiseptic and bandages from the hands that not long before had been used to crush flesh and bone.

Wesley felt somewhat foolish for his earlier suspicion and lack of faith.  He cleared his throat uncomfortably, drawing the vampire's attention, and said awkwardly, "You saved my life..."

"I'd do the same for anyone," Angel cut in.  He turned away to exchange words with Doyle, his demeanour weary.  "Doyle.  It's good you're okay," he said, cracking what might, by Angel-definitions, have actually been a smile, although on most people it would have better qualified as a small muscle-twitch.

Doyle looked past him to meet Wesley's eyes.  Wesley was painfully trying to manoeuvre himself upright, with intent to make a quiet retreat from that place while nobody's attention was upon him.  After all, it was clear he wasn't wanted here, either.  He really should be getting used to the feeling, by now.

He pushed off from the wall, and tried not to fall flat on his face and turn a dignified exit into yet another personal farce as he headed for the door.

"He saved my life," he heard Doyle say, loudly, to Angel.

Wesley hesitated, and turned back.

Harry looked mildly surprised.  Doyle looked determined.  Angel didn't particularly look anything.

"I was thinkin', you know, maybe we could use havin' the services of a demon-hunter on call, right?"

Angel looked between them, considering his cohort's words behind a vague amusement and surprise.  "The guy is good with the books," he said.  He frowned at Wesley.  "You staying in LA?"

He didn't have to think about it for very long before he nodded.

"Good."  Angel nodded back.  "That's good.  Thanks for the help, then, Wesley.  We'll be in touch if we could use your services again.  So... we'll see you around.  Right?"

"Oh, I should think so," Wesley said, dredging up all he could muster of his carefully constructed Rogue Demon Hunter persona for the occasion.  "As you know, a rogue demon hunter gets around.  Yes, I do imagine we shall meet up again.  And yes, I think I should be quite pleased to help out.  Delighted to, in fact.  Vanquishing evil and fighting the good fight... a wa- a rogue demon hunter's work is never done."

"Right."  Doyle rolled his eyes and looked as though he was regretting having spoken up.

"Farewell for now, then," Wesley said, beaming and trying not to fall over as he tripped his way backwards to the door.  "Comrades..."

He'd reached the front door by the time the yell drifted after him, echoing slightly in the vast hallway of the grand house, "But don't think for one minute that this means I like you — you pompous, irritatin', English ponce!"



* * *

"It's Doyle?  Yes, Dennis, let him in!"  Cordy's voice reached him, sounding more muted from the inside of her apartment than seemed justified by the intervening door, as though she was half whispering.  The door opened apparently of its own accord and Doyle stepped inside.

"Thanks, Den," he muttered.  A ghostly touch that was evidently meant to be friendly brushed his shoulder and chilled him to the bone.

Cordelia was on the couch.  She was sitting very still, because Dinah was asleep across the couch with her head resting on Cordelia's knee.

He noticed as she glanced up at him that she looked like she'd been deep in thought about something, seeming dazed and subdued and contemplative.  Not things he was accustomed to seeing in Cordy's face.  She also looked as though she hadn't had any sleep at all, dark smudges marking her eyes.

He hoped she didn't have any auditions lined up: she'd probably find some way to blame him for her having to turn up looking like a panda.

"Doyle," she said, sounding a little surprised.  And was that a trace of nervousness he detected in her voice?  She moved to stand, then stilled and looked helplessly down at the sleeping child.  "Uh..."

She gestured towards the kitchen, and began to slowly, carefully manoeuvre herself off the sofa, edging a cushion under Dinah's head in place of her knee.

Doyle followed her into the kitchen and waited while she carefully closed the door.  "Angel said you were worried...?" he ventured.

She hesitated.  He was bewildered by how concerned and attentive she seemed.  Her mouth kept jumping open in little false starts as though she wanted to tell him something.  Doyle found Silent Cordy a truly disturbing irregularity.

"I'm glad you're okay," she said softly, finally.

Doyle was taken aback at hearing anything approaching tenderness in Cordelia's voice after the way she'd been lately.  He managed to choke out a nervous, "Yeah?  Me too.  And I'm glad you're glad-"

She cut him off, waving her hands dismissively, and launched into speech quickly and breathlessly before he had chance to respond.  "Angel was talking to me earlier, and, you know... well, actually he didn't say much — this is Angel after all — but the not-much he said... it kind of got me thinking about some stuff, and with you getting all kidnapped and not knowing what was happening to you or if you'd be all right..."

Doyle blinked, trying to process this.  His brain wasn't exactly at optimum, and her whirlwind speed was making him dizzy.  Talking to Angel?  What- "Cordelia, I..."  I haven't the first clue what you're talking about.

"Anyway," she forged on, "Angel and I, we discussed this question earlier, and I guess I've finally had chance to think on it and make a decision, and I just wanted you to know... you know.  The answer."

Completely lost, Doyle said blankly, "Answer?"

The expression which was creeping over her face told him he'd said the wrong thing.  With suspicion, she leaned forward and sniffed at his breath.  His heart sped up at her face being that close to his own, but she drew back instantly, and her whole demeanour couldn't have shouted out 'annoyed!' any louder.

"You're drunk," she said, the pitch of her voice climbing in furious disbelief.

"Well, I can't deny I may have had a drink or a few."  Doyle laughed nervously.  "It's kind of a funny story, actually, you see..."

Cordelia flung her arms up.  "I don't want to hear it!  I was worried about you, would you believe?  Worried!  I mean, being beat up and kidnapped by horrible gangster demons... only you could turn that into an excuse to get kablooied.  Only you!  I don't believe this..."

She turned on her heel and stomped out of the kitchen, slamming the door.

Doyle stared at the closed door, blinking.  "Cordy?"

He had a feeling it was a good thing that the muffled reply which reached his ears was all but inaudible.

"I did nearly get killed," he called after her hoarsely.  "A number of times, might I add?"

"Save it."

He ventured out of the kitchen only to discover the living room was empty and the door of Cordelia's bedroom was firmly closed.  Dinah stirred restlessly on the sofa, disturbed but not awakened by the noise.  Doyle carefully crossed the room and whispered loudly through Cordelia's door, "Cordy?"

"You can let yourself out."

Doyle sighed and, shaking his head at the mystery that was Cordelia Chase, he wearily staggered off home to get some sleep.



* * *

"Will you be all right?" Angel asked.

He hadn't wanted to leave Marlon on his own after what had happened.  So, once Wesley had gone and they'd dropped off Doyle at Cordelia's, along with Harry who had to pick up her car, Angel had invited Marlon back to the office, offering him some of Doyle's stash of whiskey.  Although his offer had been to talk things through over a drink, most of the past few hours had in fact been spent in silence.  Marlon didn't seem to mind silence any more than Angel did, though.

Now, the demon was preparing to make tracks as the first traces of the imminent dawn touched the sky.  "Sure, sure," he replied to Angel's question, flexing his injured arm as he drew on his coat, wincing.  "I heal quick.  One of the perks.  It'll be good as new in another few hours."

"That... wasn't actually what I meant."

Marlon nodded, but didn't reply.

"Where will you go?" Angel pressed.

"Not back to the house."  Well, they both knew that.  They'd agreed the best option was to tip off the police about Hanley, who they'd left there unconscious.  Angel had wanted to hide the bodies of the demons but Marlon had said let the police make what they would of them, because whatever they came up with to explain it, it wouldn't be the truth.

Angel supposed he could trust the demon's word on that: Marlon was an expert at playing on human disbelief.

"I've got places," Marlon said finally.  He sighed.  Angel thought of sewers, and sympathised, but could imagine Cordelia's reaction to him letting a demon crash at the office all too well.  "I never thought it would end like this.  Tony and Uxzijdxz...  I really thought they were decent guys, deep down.  I believed in them.  Okay, I always knew Hanley was a bit iffy, who wouldn't be who'd make a deal like that with four demons?  And poor Gary... it used to be just me and him, at the start, you know?"

"Sometimes people let you down," Angel said quietly.  "But better to be surprised by it than to expect it."

"I guess that's true."

"Have you thought about what you'll do, now?  I mean, maybe the villain thing wasn't really the right way to go.  Maybe you could have a try at playing the hero?"

"You think I should make like you and start a PI business?" Marlon asked.  He looked contemplative for a second.  Angel imagined him thinking up all the new sources he could dredge for that role, and winced.

But Marlon laughed softly and shook his head.  "No, I don't think so.  Thanks for the suggestion, Angel, but I don't think I'm enough of the daredevil laughs-in-face-of-danger type.  I was always more the figuring-out-how-to-avoid-danger-altogether type."

"Excuse me if I find that hard to believe, considering the things you've been up to," Angel said dryly.

"Believe what you like," he replied with a shrug.  "But actually I always had a secret yen to open my own videostore — or even a cinema.  A demons-only cinema.  You think folks would go for that?"

Surprised, Angel said weakly, "You... could always try."

"That's right, I could."  He frowned contemplatively, and nodded.  "Yes, I could.  I still have a little money, and I know a few people who might be interested in making the investment.  Thanks, Angel.  Maybe I'll see you around, eh?"  Marlon headed for the door, still nodding slowly to himself.

He stopped half out of the doorway, his expression serious.

"I guess... we don't always have to live up to expectations," he said.



* * *

In his motel room, Wesley sat slumped on the edge of the ill-made bed sipping at a cup of tea and trying to calm the nerves that were still hyped up and on-edge from the events of the last sixteen hours.

Lacking money or transport, it had taken him the rest of the night to limp back across the city to the shabby motel that, lately, he tried hard not to call his home.  He came back to peeling wallpaper, ancient furniture and that odd smell of damp with a feeling disturbingly like relief.

He'd called Cordelia, intending to leave a message to apologise for not turning up.  Of course, she knew why he hadn't turned up, but manners cost nothing, after all.  Expecting her to be asleep, he'd been surprised when she'd picked up.  Then he'd been flabbergasted when, following a brief exchange, she'd irately declared he'd been drinking, gone off into an ear-splitting rant about men, then unceremoniously slammed the receiver down.

Wesley gazed out of the window.  Outside, the yellow glow of early morning had already taken over the sky.

He wondered what Angel and the others were doing now.  Doyle.  Harry.  That strange demon.  Funny to find a demon that was interested in helping people, he mused, let alone three of them.

Funny to find an ex-watcher and demon hunter helping out a demon.

His father would spit.  His father...

But his father was half the globe distant, as was the Watchers Council who'd rejected him.  And both, in their own ways, had renounced any investment or interest in his actions.  Angel and his people alone, it seemed, still cared to have him around.

The thing about burning your bridges, Wesley thought, was that it cut you free.  A year ago, he couldn't afford even civility so far as Angel was concerned.  But nobody was responsible for what he did now but himself, and if he wanted to help demons and vampires with souls rid LA of evil — well, God damn it, he would!

He set his shoulders and sat up straighter.  The comforting feel of the tea warming his throat and a mellow, satisfied feeling that could have been happiness counteracted his bruises and exhaustion.  Outside the window, the forecourt of the motel was beginning to come alive with early departing customers, and cleaning staff.

Although he had not slept in almost thirty hours, he didn't feel sleepy.  In fact, he felt like he was just coming awake.

Calmly sipping his tea, Wesley Wyndham Pryce sat quietly and watched the day.





Fade Out



Closing Credits