Headful of Ghosts, pt 21
Sep. 5th, 2005 10:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wesleysgirlAngel can't let go. He's still not convinced that this isn't a dream, not completely, but that doesn't make it any easier to stop touching Doyle, holding onto his arms and inhaling the scent of him. "You can't be real."
"My shirt's doing a pretty good job of getting wet, considering it's imaginary," Doyle says. There's that little hint of humor, even though Angel can tell that underneath it, there's worry.
Angel draws a shuddering breath and presses his face in tighter against Doyle's chest. He's uncomfortable, bent over, but he doesn't care.
"Look, I don't know about you, but I'm getting a crick sitting on the floor here. You think we can move to the other room?" Doyle asks.
Nodding, Angel pulls back, but he grabs onto a fistful of Doyle's shirt -- there's a momentary flash of holding Xander's shirt the same way, Xander's panicked breathing, but Angel's not sure if that was now, today, or years ago. It all blends together -- as they get up. "Don't go," Angel begs.
"I'm not. I'm not going anywhere without you. You hear me?" Doyle says it calmly, looking right at Angel like he knows that will be reassuring. It is; for a few seconds, anyway.
They go out into the bedroom. There are torn of strips of fabric on the floor, and the smell of blood is unmistakable. Angel wonders what happened here. He wonders what happened yesterday. All he can remember is Doyle making things better, and he doesn't remember why they were bad.
"You look like you could use some sleep," Doyle says, sitting him down on the bed.
"I'm tired," Angel agrees. It feels like he's been tired for a long time. He lies down, Doyle's hands urging him to, but doesn't close his eyes. The room is quiet. He can hear water running somewhere nearby. Or maybe it's rain. Is it raining? Was it? There's water in his eyes.
"I'm not going anywhere," Doyle says, touching Angel's face with warm fingers.
Angel catches Doyle's hand, turns his cheek into it. He can close his eyes when he knows Doyle's there. "Something's wrong."
"I know," Doyle says. "I can tell."
"I don't know what it is." Angel looks at Doyle again, kind green eyes gazing back at him. "I know there's... but I don't know why." Doyle waits, and Angel adds, "I can see them."
Doyle glances over his shoulder at the empty room. "See who?" he asks, frowning.
"Them." Angel whispers it, wondering if they'll hear him. He pulls Doyle closer, hiding his face against Doyle's neck. There's blood there, pumping. "They won't go away."
"Who won't go away?" Doyle asks softly.
"The ones that talk to me. They want me to help them, but it's too late; they're already dead, and the other ones keep showing them to me. How they die." Angel knows he's not making any sense, but he can't figure out which things he's saying are wrong and which are right. He doesn't know how to put the words together so that they make sense. He knows there has to be a way.
Doyle strokes a hand over Angel's hair. "It's okay. You just get some sleep, and when you wake up, we'll figure it out."
"It's worse when I sleep," Angel says. "I can't get away from them."
"Well, just close your eyes. I'll be right here."
There's a sound in the hall. Angel lifts his face, and Spike and Xander are standing in the doorway.
Spike is a ghost.
Xander is losing pieces of himself, one by one.
Angel can hear Doyle's heart beating, and he realizes that the rain has stopped.
"My shirt's doing a pretty good job of getting wet, considering it's imaginary," Doyle says. There's that little hint of humor, even though Angel can tell that underneath it, there's worry.
Angel draws a shuddering breath and presses his face in tighter against Doyle's chest. He's uncomfortable, bent over, but he doesn't care.
"Look, I don't know about you, but I'm getting a crick sitting on the floor here. You think we can move to the other room?" Doyle asks.
Nodding, Angel pulls back, but he grabs onto a fistful of Doyle's shirt -- there's a momentary flash of holding Xander's shirt the same way, Xander's panicked breathing, but Angel's not sure if that was now, today, or years ago. It all blends together -- as they get up. "Don't go," Angel begs.
"I'm not. I'm not going anywhere without you. You hear me?" Doyle says it calmly, looking right at Angel like he knows that will be reassuring. It is; for a few seconds, anyway.
They go out into the bedroom. There are torn of strips of fabric on the floor, and the smell of blood is unmistakable. Angel wonders what happened here. He wonders what happened yesterday. All he can remember is Doyle making things better, and he doesn't remember why they were bad.
"You look like you could use some sleep," Doyle says, sitting him down on the bed.
"I'm tired," Angel agrees. It feels like he's been tired for a long time. He lies down, Doyle's hands urging him to, but doesn't close his eyes. The room is quiet. He can hear water running somewhere nearby. Or maybe it's rain. Is it raining? Was it? There's water in his eyes.
"I'm not going anywhere," Doyle says, touching Angel's face with warm fingers.
Angel catches Doyle's hand, turns his cheek into it. He can close his eyes when he knows Doyle's there. "Something's wrong."
"I know," Doyle says. "I can tell."
"I don't know what it is." Angel looks at Doyle again, kind green eyes gazing back at him. "I know there's... but I don't know why." Doyle waits, and Angel adds, "I can see them."
Doyle glances over his shoulder at the empty room. "See who?" he asks, frowning.
"Them." Angel whispers it, wondering if they'll hear him. He pulls Doyle closer, hiding his face against Doyle's neck. There's blood there, pumping. "They won't go away."
"Who won't go away?" Doyle asks softly.
"The ones that talk to me. They want me to help them, but it's too late; they're already dead, and the other ones keep showing them to me. How they die." Angel knows he's not making any sense, but he can't figure out which things he's saying are wrong and which are right. He doesn't know how to put the words together so that they make sense. He knows there has to be a way.
Doyle strokes a hand over Angel's hair. "It's okay. You just get some sleep, and when you wake up, we'll figure it out."
"It's worse when I sleep," Angel says. "I can't get away from them."
"Well, just close your eyes. I'll be right here."
There's a sound in the hall. Angel lifts his face, and Spike and Xander are standing in the doorway.
Spike is a ghost.
Xander is losing pieces of himself, one by one.
Angel can hear Doyle's heart beating, and he realizes that the rain has stopped.
