Fic: On Being an Irish Toad (Angel/Doyle, PG)

[allyndra]

Please do not mock my title too badly, as it's already a little self conscious. This was written for the minor characters round of  maleslashminisfor bookishwench. It came out kind of introspective and pre-slashy, but what can you do? The prompt is listed at the end of the fic.

 

 

Title:  On Being an Irish Toad

Author: Allyndra

Pairing: Doyle/Angel

Rating: PG

Word Count: 1,743

Spoilers: Through Bachelor Party

Disclaimer: These are not my characters. I have manipulated them for my own devious ends, but I'm not making any profit from it.

 

Summary: Doyle doesn't hide as well as he thinks. 

 

 

It was Angel's fault, really, that Doyle came so close to being pulverised by a Fyarl demon. The bloke they were after - a nasty warlock by the name of Grelmhad - used all manner of demons as servants, and his bodyguards were mostly Fyarls. Doyle hadn't made too poor a showing in the fight, dodging mucus here and huge boney fists there. Right up until Angel distracted him.

 

The demon Angel was fighting stepped under a streetlamp and the vampire followed. For a moment, their fight was lit as though they were onstage, enacting some dramatic battle - the fiercely determined hero in his long, black coat, sweeping and twirling, kicking and jabbing at his monstrous adversary. Doyle didn't think he could rightly be blamed for staring; anyone would have done. Anyone other than Doyle's opponent, who took Doyle's distraction as an opportunity to charge.

 

Had Doyle been quite human, he wouldn't have had a chance. But, loathe though he was to admit the fact, there were benefits to being half-demon. Doyle jerked his eyes from Angel and saw the Fyarl bearing down on him. He gave in to necessity and opened the gate in his mind that let the Brachen slip out, dodging out of the way of the attack as the transformation shivered over him. His reflexes improved as he changed, so that the second half of his dodge was decidedly smoother and faster than the first.

 

The Fyarl growled when it realized it had failed to crush Doyle and turned to give it another go. It took in the alteration in Doyle's appearance for the first time and blinked at him stupidly.

 

Doyle gave the lumbering hulk a winning smile. "What, you don't like it?" he asked, gesturing at his spiked face. "I just thought I'd change into somethin' more comfortable." His smile turned bitter. It was true; this form was more comfortable.

 

He'd never been quite able to forgive himself for that.

 

***

 

Doyle had grown up thinking he was normal. He'd played football in the schoolyard with the other boys, scrapped with local bullies, argued with his mum. If he was different, it was only that he jumped into things faster than the other fellows.

 

He'd been in a rush to move out when his mates were happy to be scruffing about their parents' homes. He'd been young to fall in love with Harry and impatient to marry her and start their life together. When he'd finished with uni, he'd poured himself straight away into his teaching career.

 

His mother used to sniff and say, "Slowly now, Francis. Fools rush in," but he would only grin and reply, "Aye, but they're not bored while they do."

 

Doyle had run headlong through life until he was 21 years old. Then it only took one revelation to drag him to a halt. He learned that he'd never been normal and he never would be.

 

He'd been marking time ever since.

 

***

 

When the fight was over, the ground littered with dead and injured demons and the shattered remains of Grelmhad's focusing crystal, Doyle took a moment just to breathe. The cool night air brushed against the spines on his skin and ruffled his hair. A quiet step behind him made him whirl, fits up, but it was only Angel.

 

Angel wore the face of a vampire, and Doyle was struck by how seldom he'd seen it. It was odd, seeing the Angel he knew under and over and inside of the yellow eyes, ridged face, and fanged mouth.

 

"Are you all right?" Angel asked, concern looking right foolish on the face of a demon.

 

"Yeah," Doyle nodded. "'Bout you?"

 

Angel shrugged with a wince. "I'll manage. I heal fast."

 

"Angel!" a voice shouted. Both men tensed as Cordelia's voice pierced the air. Angel turned to face her, his body blocking Doyle from her view. He managed to make it look entirely coincidental. Using the cover as he knew it was intended, Doyle drew his demon self back inside his skin, into his mind, and locked the gate.

 

"There you guys are! Do you know how many gross demons I had to step over to find you? If I have demon juice on my shoes, you're so buying me new ones. And honestly Angel, put the fangs away. All your little playmates are worn out, and I don't need to see that." Doyle took a step to his left so he could see around Angel's bulk. Cordelia was glaring at her boss and flipping her hair in irritation.

 

Angel shook his head, letting his human face drop back into place. "Sorry. Sometimes I forget to shift back," he said, hunching his shoulders uncomfortably.

 

Doyle trained his eyes on the ground as the three of them began making their way back to the car. He silently promised himself never to forget to change back.

 

***

 

Angel had asked him once, in a rare, teasing mood, why he called Cordelia 'princess.' Doyle had blinked at him for a moment, wondering how to respond. It would have been easy to lob it off, say something witty about her royal bearing and willingness to order them about. But when he opened his mouth, the truth came out instead.

 

"It helps me remember," he explained softly. "She's the princess. She's supposed to get the prince, not the toad."

 

Doyle had no illusions about which category he fit into. He had the warts and all.

 

***

 

It was nearly morning when they dropped Cordelia off at her apartment, near enough that Angel drove to the office with a blatant disregard for the speed limit. It wasn't nearly time to start the business day, so the two men made their way down into Angel's apartment.

 

Doyle shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over a chair, then wandered into the kitchen. He felt safe there, as though the peeling linoleum was an old jumper he could pull on for comfort.

 

"Don't suppose you've got any food," he began, opening in cupboard. He shut his mouth with a snap when he saw the well stocked shelves. Tinned vegetables, peanut butter, crackers - the cupboard was full. "Angel, man, you do realize you're a vampire?" Doyle said, staring at the food.

 

"I don't think I'm likely to forget," Angel replied, his mouth twisted into something that couldn't be called a smile. He reached past Doyle into the cupboard and pulled out a box of pancake mix. "Sit down. I'll make you breakfast."

 

Doyle sat at the table and watched as Angel stirred up the batter and heated a pan. There was something safe and comfortable about this, too, in an entirely different way than linoleum.

 

***

 

Doyle liked to look at Angel and Cordelia. Together, they were a matched set, tall and beautiful, dark hair and shining eyes. There was a poetry to the way Cordelia's face would light up in innocent triumph when she got her way, in the arch of Angel's neck when he lifted his head to set aside his dark regrets and join in their conversation. Apart, they were unique - Cordelia full of quicksilver wit and brutal honesty and Angel wrapped in ponderous thoughts and the need for atonement.

 

He'd watched them both for weeks, perhaps months before he realized that his gaze was drawn more to one dark head and graceful body than the other. He did his best to hide it, and he thought his best was rather impressive. He gave his smiles and jokes to Cordelia every day and hoped no one noticed he gave his stares and his sighs elsewhere.

 

***

 

Angel slid the plate toward Doyle and settled into a chair opposite him. Doyle ate with a will, enjoying the food and the silent companionship. He glanced across the table and found himself caught. Angel's eyes were fixed on him with an attention that made Doyle squirm. He wasn't used to being the one watched.

 

"What?" he demanded. "Have I food on my face?"

 

Angel shook his head. "No, just ... what you asked earlier. I realize I'm a vampire. Do you realize you're demon?" he asked gently.

 

Doyle swallowed a mouthful that suddenly threatened to choke him. "Half-demon," he corrected. "Half."

 

"You don't show it, though. You wear this face all the time."

 

"This face is who I am," Doyle insisted.

 

Angel shook his head. "I don't think so. Not all of who you are. I think you hide behind it." He studied Doyle for a moment, then said, "Put off that mask of burning gold with emerald eyes." His voice melted away from the American accent he'd put on for so many years, changing to the lilt Doyle had been listening for since learning Angel's origins. He sounded like home.

 

"O no, my dear," Doyle answered with a shake of his head. He was uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, but under his disquiet was a spring of delight. He'd not traded poetry with anyone in years. "You make so bold to find if hearts be wild and wise, and yet not cold."

 

Angel smiled at him, and the expression made him look young. "Your heart isn't cold."

 

It wasn't. It was beating far too wildly to be cold. Doyle stood abruptly and took his plate to the sink. "You don't understand."

 

"I do understand. I used to feel the same way, but I look at you and ... I hate that you feel the need to hide." Angel had stepped upright behind him and dropped a hand to his shoulder. Doyle held himself still. "You're still the same person, regardless of which face you wear." His hand slid up Doyle's shoulder to the back of his neck. "Though I admit, this is a very attractive mask," Angel said.

 

Doyle turned his head and raised his eyes, meeting Angel's. There was a challenge in those brown eyes, and Doyle took a deep breath before answering it. He released his Brachen half with a shudder, watching as Angel let his own demon cover his face.

 

They stood together in the kitchen, two demons and a lot of silence. Angel sighed and pulled Doyle closer, wrapping his other arm around him. Doyle leaned into the embrace and closed his eyes. The spines on his face caught the fabric of Angel's shirt, but Doyle smiled.

 

No fairy story ever said the toad couldn't end up with another toad.

 

*****************

 

The prompt:

Requested pairing: Doyle/Angel

Up to three things you want in your story: pancakes, a mention of or quote from William Butler Yeats, Angel's old basement apartment

Up to two things you *don't* want: death, non-con

Maximum rating you prefer: whatever you wish