Ophelia

Summary: What if Buffy never ran into Lily or Ken in LA, and the Powers That Be decided to send someone to help her get back onto her feet? And that someone just happened to be an Irish half-demon with a habit of receiving visions of those in trouble?
Rating: R/NC17 - not sure of the distinction, as I don't live in the US. However, there is sex and some rude words... Not a lot, but some.
Spoilers: Buffy: Becoming 2, Anne; Angel: The Bachelor Party, Hero - i.e. Doyle's background.
Distribution: Anywhere you want, just ask first so I know where it's going.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. I am merely borrowing them for the time being, as the real owners are Joss Whedon, Fox, The WB, Mutant Enemy etc.
Feedback: Always appreciated and replied to.
Author's note: I have a feeling I messed up a little on the dates and specifics of Doyle's background, so if you notice anything wrong, please LMK. D/B is one of my favourite 'ships, and has been from the moment I first saw Doyle, and heard his bedtime story for Angel! I was so glad when this list was created. I'm just happy to have finally written a half-decent fic to post.

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Part 1

'Anne, table three needs a refill,' Jenny said, indicating the general direction. Buffy sighed. The guy at table three had been there for the past hour, drinking nothing but coffee.

'He better give me a good tip,' she muttered as she collected the pot of coffee and pasted a chirpy smile on her face.

'Here's your coffee, sir,' she greeted.

He looked up and for the first time since he'd arrived she saw his face properly. She almost dropped the coffee. God, he was gorgeous. She hadn't felt attracted to anyone in so long that at first the feeling was foreign and unknown. She soon realised that the strange pounding of her heart, the weakness in her knees, and the sensation that all the breath had been stolen from her body was desire.

He had a slightly ragged look, as if he'd been living in his car the past weeks - quite a lot like she looked herself, she realised. He was unshaven and there were shadows under his eyes that looked like a year's worth of accumulated lost sleep. His hair was pitch-black, soft and wavy, and even appeared clean, and she longed to run her fingers through it.

It was naturally wavy and she knew that it would feel wonderful under her fingertips, unlike the sticky, spiky concoction that was Angel's hair. It had never ceased to amaze her that a two hundred year old vampire could give a damn about his hair, especially when he never saw it, and never went anywhere his appearance would matter, but Angel had been almost obsessive when it came to his hair.

Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of her lover and she closed them briefly, trying to suppress the pain. When she opened them, the stranger's eyes, an amazing shade of sparkling blue, were locked on hers.

'Oh, I'm so sorry,' she gasped, tipping the pot over his cup, startled. In her haste, she spilled coffee all over him. He leapt out of the booth with a yell, swiping at his clothes.

'Oh, god, I'm so sorry!' she cried, reaching for some napkins. She dabbed at the brown, sticky mess, only succeeding in spreading it even more. He grabbed her wrist and raised it away from his shirt.

'Miss, uh, Anne,' he said, reading off her name tag, and she had time to notice that he was Irish - and damn was that a sexy accent - and also to reprimand herself for noticing a thing like that, before her scattered thoughts realised he was addressing her.

'Yes?' she said, hoping like crazy he wouldn't be too angry. She didn't have the money to pay for dry cleaning if her boss wanted to take it out of her pay-check. She was already behind on rent.

'Look, don't worry about it. These clothes were overdue for a wash anyway.'

'Oh, I'm so-'

'No more sorry's,' he said. 'You don't have to apologise, it was an accident.'

'Okay.'

'Now, could you tell me if there's a laundromat around here someplace?'

'Yeah, Denny's All Nite, just down the road.'

'That sounds promising.'

'Oh, wait.' Buffy clapped a hand to her forehead. 'It's closed.'

'Why? It's only nine-thirty, and I thought you said-'

'I did. Guess maybe you could sue them for false advertising, but I think the owner's out of town or something.'

'Okay, so is there any place nearby? Like, walking distance.'

He had hitchhiked, Buffy realised. No car. 'No, nothing for miles. Oh, God, I am so....' She trailed off when he gave her a look.

Buffy cast around for a solution. 'Well, I know this is a crazy idea, but if you don't mind waiting another half-hour, I'll be off and I can let you use my washing machine. I-if that's okay?'

Oh, God, she was inviting a strange man to her apartment. What was wrong with her? But he didn't seem non-human, and he had the most adorable smile, oh, god, he was smiling at *her*.

'Thank you, Anne. If I can call you that?'

'That's fine,' she murmured, collecting the coffee pot. 'I'll just go get a cloth to clean this up,' she said, indicating the brown liquid rapidly congealing on the tabletop.

'Maybe I should thank you for stopping me from drinking that,' he said, smiling again. He should do it all the time, she decided, there is something utterly gorgeous about a man with a smile. 'It looks hazardous to my health. The name's Doyle, by the way.'

'Doyle. That's nice,' she said, backing away.

Jenny grabbed her arm the minute she rounded the counter. 'My god, who is he? And what were you talking to him about?'

'Doyle, coffee,' Buffy replied, searching for a cloth.

'Excuse me?'

'His name is Doyle, he's Irish, he doesn't own a car, I just spilled coffee all over him, and that's all I know,' Buffy said, hoping that would bring an end to Jenny's questions. She deliberately withheld the information about Doyle coming over to her apartment in less than thirty minutes.

'Anne, you gotta let me clean up, please? How else can I get him to ask me out on a date?'

Buffy felt a sinking feeling in her stomach, what if Jenny talked to him and flirted and invited him back to her place? What if he left and she never saw him again?

'It's okay,' she said, seizing a dishcloth, 'I got it.'

'Spoilsport,' Jenny muttered.

Buffy nodded at Doyle as she arrived at his table, and wiped up the spilled coffee. 'Can I bring you anything else?' she asked.

'No, thanks. I'll be fine,' he said, and she picked up the cloth and headed back to finish her shift.

Twenty-five minutes later, Buffy collected her coat, said goodbye to Jenny, and made her way over to Doyle's table. He wasn't there, and she simply stood for a moment, heart hammering in her chest, before dropping her gaze and trudging out.

He must have had second thoughts and decided to leave before I got off, she decided, disheartened. The nicest person she'd met in LA since she arrived and he'd already disappeared. Sooner or later they all leave, an inner voice said, but Buffy squished it. She wasn't in the mood to brood tonight. Although she undoubtedly was going to.

She'd walked ten paces away from the diner before she found him. Doyle was lounging against a street lamp, waiting for her.

'I was getting a bit uncomfortable in there,' he explained, holding his arm out for her. 'May I?' he asked, and she nodded, thrilling in the warmth as his arm slipped through hers.

'I thought... that you'd left,' she said her voice faltering.

'I wouldn't just up and disappear without even saying goodbye,' he countered, his other hand coming up to squeeze her elbow.

'Good,' she said softly.

'Okay, this is us,' Buffy told Doyle as they reached her building.

'Good. I think the coffee is starting to melt my clothes, and since they're the only ones I have...'

'I know the feeling,' Buffy said as she unlocked the door. 'I spent three weeks washing my one outfit in the basin till I could afford another set of clothes. And a place with a washing machine.'

She led him up the stairs and opened the door to her flat. 'And this is it. Quite an improvement on my last place, let me tell you.'

Doyle followed her in, wincing a little at the bare, empty room. 'You planning to be here long?' he asked.

'I, uh, I don't...' Buffy looked away.

'I see.' Doyle couldn't help but feel a stab of sympathy for this girl. She looked like she'd spent most of her life being looked after, and had only just discovered the darker side of life. Of course, thanks to a couple of blinding headaches accompanied by visions, he knew that was far from the case. If anybody knew the dark side of life, it was this girl. The Slayer. He'd personally never heard of her, but he figured that had something to do with the fact that his demon side had only appeared a few months ago.

And since that last vision that he'd ignored, well.... there hadn't been any others till now. Till her. And that was when he knew that it hadn't been a one-off. It was permanent, he, Allan Francis Doyle, had been chosen to help people like her. Like his cousin.

And he'd vowed never to fail again, which was why he was standing in this girl's empty apartment, smiling at her, and wondering how in the hell he was going to put her shattered pieces back together again and send her back to her happy little life so she could go on saving the world just like she was supposed to.

And then there would be another vision, another person to help, another round of fearing that he wasn't good enough to do it, that the Powers That Be had chosen the wrong guy. How could he save this beautiful, lonely girl when he couldn't even save himself?

'I, uh, guess you should get undressed,' she said.

He smiled. 'Sure. Got something I can change into while my clothes are in the machine?'

'Um, maybe a towel? I don't think my clothes would fit you. Except...' She turned her back on him and crouched over a single drawer, resting on the floor, obviously salvaged from a skip somewhere.

'This,' she said, standing up and offering him a t-shirt. 'I use it to sleep in.'

She blushed, and he found it absurdly endearing. She truly was beautiful, Buffy Anne Summers. Tiny and delicate and innocent. Looks could be deceiving though. Take him. Who would suspect that under the gentle, friendly, Irish exterior would lie a disgusting spiny demon? He hated his demon face with a vengeance, and prayed it wouldn't slip out while he was around her. What would happen then? She'd probably run screaming into the night - or stake him.

He accepted the shirt and glanced around for somewhere to change.

'I'll just look the other way,' she said, turning and going over to the window. As she looked out onto the street, a single tear slipped out of her eye. How many times had Angel turned away while she changed, ever the gentleman? And now he never would again, because she'd killed him. Even worse than that, she'd condemned him to an eternity of torment in hell.

Doyle stripped quickly and pulled the t-shirt on. It was big and baggy and fell to his knees. He wasn't much taller than her.

Buffy sniffed quietly.

'Anne?' Doyle asked, remembering just in time not to call her Buffy. 'Are you okay?'

She turned to face him, a sunny smile on her face. 'Fine. Why wouldn't I be?'

'Because that's the chirpiest smile I've ever seen, and nobody can be that happy in downtown LA unless they're on a TV set. or on something. What's wrong?'

'Can we not talk about it, okay? Can I just go clean your clothes, and you sit here, and then I'll give them back to you and you can leave and that'll be it. Because I can't... I can't do it again.'

'Do what?'

'Get close to anybody. I just can't. And when you smile at me, and ask me how I'm doing, and act like you care... I just feel it would be so easy to get close to you.'

'Why would that be wrong?' Doyle asked, coming closer.

'Because when people get close to me, they get hurt. It's kind of a habit.'

Buffy grabbed the clothes out of his hand and left the room. When she got down to the laundry room, she shoved the clothes into the machine, dropped in a quarter, and slid down to the floor. She started to cry, curling up into a ball against the rocking of the washing machine.

The tears only abated when the machine began to slow down. She wiped her face and put Doyle's shirt and trousers into the drier. She spun the carrel and found his socks stuck to the side. She duly transferred them to the drier and was about to shut the washing machine door when she caught sight of something else. It was his boxer shorts.

'Oh, god, he's naked up there,' she exclaimed, and suddenly her fear and confusion dissipated, replaced with a desire stronger than she could remember feeling in a long time. Fuck despair and heartache and end of the world, she thought, I just want to feel wanted again.

She switched the drier on and headed up the stairs.

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Part 2

Doyle heard Buffy's footsteps approach and looked up from the coffee he was making. When she opened the door he smiled. 'I thought maybe you weren't coming back,' he said.

She shrugged, looking uncomfortable, and then she came closer, a determined look on her face. He waited till she was standing right in front of him, wondering what she was up to, and then she came closer still, rising up on her tiptoes and brushing her lips against his. At the feel of her mouth on his, all the lust and desire and attraction he'd been feeling for her from the moment he first saw her rose to the surface and he kissed her back. She moaned into his mouth, and it turned into a whimper.

'Anne?'

'I'm sorry, I just want...'

'What do you want?'

'I just want to feel loved,' she whispered, her cheeks flushing. Doyle's heart almost broke at her softly spoken words.

'Are you sure this is the way to get it?' he asked gently.

'No.' Buffy sighed. 'This is exactly the wrong way, some meaningless fuck on my dirty kitchen floor with a guy I'll never see again. But it's the only way I have. Your clothes will be done in fifteen minutes. You can keep the t-shirt.'

'Wait, Anne, I didn't mean it like that. It's not that I don't want you, and it wouldn't be meaningless to me. I swear it wouldn't. There's nothing I want more right now than to make sweet, passionate love to you, but I can't. It's not right, not when you'd only be doing it for comfort's sake. I'm sure there's some people out there who can make you feel a whole lot better than I ever could. Some place you belong.'

Buffy smiled sadly. 'Maybe I don't belong there any more.'

'Maybe you need to go back and find out. Look, I don't know why exactly you're here, but I'm pretty sure a girl like you has a lot of friends who could look after you, help you right now. I bet they're missing you like crazy, and I know this is none of my business, but I think you miss them too.'

'So what if I do?' Buffy asked. 'It doesn't mean I can just walk back and have everything right again. Nothing will ever be okay again.'

'But maybe it would be less not okay there than here,' Doyle suggested. 'Maybe,' Buffy said, 'but I'm never gonna find out. I can't explain, and I don't think you'd be able to understand, but I can't go back. Not ever. So all I have is me.' She turned away. 'I'll go check on your stuff.'

When she returned again, his dry clothes in her arms, he was waiting on the bed.

'Thank you,' he said, taking his clothes.

She nodded. 'I'll wait outside.'

'No, don't. Anne, I've been thinking, and... maybe you were right. Maybe you can't go back, and maybe I can't either, and maybe all we have is each other. Can I... I'd like to stay a little while. I just... I don't want to be alone.'

It was true, he didn't want to spend any more time on his own, but he also thought it might be the only way to get close enough to her to convince her to go home.

She looked uncertain, and then she nodded. 'Sure, you can stay. I don't really have anywhere...'

'I'll sleep on the floor,' he offered. 'I've had worse.'

And that was when she really lost it, suddenly Doyle reminded her so much of Angel it hurt, and she collapsed, sobbing. Doyle hesitated, but then he knelt beside the weeping girl and wrapped his arms around her. She burrowed into his embrace, her tears wetting the thin material of the t-shirt.

'It's okay,' he murmured, 'Just let it all out. That's a girl.' His soothing whispering in her ear began to calm her, and she relaxed in his arms.

'Thank you, Doyle,' she said, lifting her teary eyes to look at him.

'What are friends for?' he said, and she looked startled. 'I mean, uh, that is-'

'No, it's okay. I like being your friend, Doyle.'

Later that night, when Doyle woke to the sounds of Buffy's whimpering, gripped in some nightmare, he sat beside her on the bed and soothed her back to sleep, and when she woke up to find his body curled protectively around her own, she felt safe for the first time in months. She extricated herself carefully without waking him, dressed, and left for work. And when she collected her coat to leave at one for her lunch break, Doyle was waiting outside.

'The least I can do is buy you lunch,' he explained, so they went and had lunch, and they talked, and laughed, and Buffy was able to be genuinely cheerful as she hadn't in a long while.

So when Doyle walked her back to the diner, it was only natural of her to kiss him lightly on the cheek, and thank him, and casually tell him she didn't mind if he hung around for a while. He nodded and said goodbye, and watched as she went inside, his eyes following her slim form till he could no longer see her. Then he turned and walked back to her place, buying a paperback on the way. If he was going to be waiting for her till eight, the least he could do was keep up on his reading. And that was how their routine started: Buffy would work, Doyle would read, they'd have lunch, he'd walk her home at the end of her shift, and they'd have dinner and go to sleep.

Eventually, she told him to stop starting out the night on the floor, since they both knew he'd end up in the bed with her, so they would climb into the bed together and she'd curl up in his arms trustingly and sleep straight through the night till it was time to go to work in the morning. Within his warm embrace, the nightmares couldn't reach her.

Doyle decided he needed a job, and they scoured the paper each morning until he decided being a waiter was the best he was going to get. And then they'd both leave in the morning, and still meet up for lunch and walk home together at night.

Buffy began to get her confidence back, and Doyle knew he'd lose her soon, and she noticed his melancholy but he refused to tell her why.

One day, when he came after work to collect her, she wasn't there.

Jenny told him she'd quit, and he was terrified she'd just left, without telling him.

Jenny took pity on him and told him to go check out the beach. So he did, and he found her sitting on the sand, gazing out at the ocean.

'Anne.'

'Hey, Doyle.'

'I was so afraid you'd left,' he said, dropping down beside her and hugging her tightly.

'Yeah, I just... decided. I arrived at the Diner, and I realised I didn't want to do it anymore. There are people who need me, you were right about that. People I need too. So I'm going back home.'

'Were you going to tell me?'

She turned to look at him, hurt written plainly on her features. 'Of course I was going to tell you! You don't think I'd just up and leave?'

'Well, I... you weren't there, and you hadn't said anything, so I... I didn't know what to think.'

'I'm sorry. I don't want to leave you, but...'

'You have a place to go.'

'Yeah. And if it weren't for you, I would never have known. Thank you, Doyle.'

She leaned forward and kissed him, tenderly at first, but then the passion that had always been present between them rose up and their kiss deepened.

Buffy pushed Doyle back onto the sand and knelt over him, her lips still locked with his. He broke away to take a much-needed breath, and gasped out, 'Are you sure we-'

'Yes, Doyle. I'm sure.' Buffy began to unbutton his shirt, kissing each bit of flesh as it was revealed. Doyle laid back and groaned. Her mouth was searing hot on his body, leaving trails of fire where she touched him.

'Oh, God...' Buffy smiled and tugged his shirt off. Then she stretched and pulled her uniform up over her head, revealing her white cotton bra and panties.

'Oh, God,' Doyle repeated. She was so beautiful.

'Anne, wait...' he said as she began to unzip his pants.

'Do you really want me to stop?' she asked.

'No... but you have to. I have to tell you something.'

What the hell am I doing? Doyle screamed at himself. This is what I've wanted to happen since I first laid eyes on her. Why am I trying to ruin it? But he knew this couldn't happen unless he was totally honest with her.

'Anne.... Buffy.'

She stopped, deadly still. 'What did you call me?'

'Buffy,' he repeated, closing his eyes.

Buffy stared at him in disbelief. 'You... you knew? And you never said? Who are you? No, wait, I don't want to know.' She stood up, groping blindly for her dress.

'No, Buffy, please, you have to listen.'

'I don't have to do anything, you jerk! Who are you? What are you? A demon? Did you think it was funny, making me fall for you? Were you gonna fuck me and then kill me? Was that the plan?'

When he reached for her she jerked away.

'I hate you!' she screamed, scrambling away from him, trying to get her dress on.

'Buffy, stop! I never meant to lie to you, but you would never have trusted me if I told you what I knew.'

'Damn straight.'

'Buffy, I was sent to find you by The Powers That Be.'

'Be what?'

'You know, the people that fight the good fight. The Ultimate Beings. I don't know what the hell they are, not properly. All I know is I get visions of people in trouble and then I try to help them. I saw you. I saw you fight Angel, and kill him. I saw you leave town, I saw you in LA, I saw you called, I saw you meet Angel, and I saw you die. I saw everything, Buffy, and then I came to find you. To help you get back on your feet and go back home, because I also saw that they needed you. The world needs you.'

'And why didn't you just tell me this?'

'First of all, if some stranger had walked up to you and said, hey, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, you gotta go home now,' what would you have done?'

Buffy looked away.

'You would have run away. And secondly, you weren't ready to go back, not then. You needed to be able to make the decision on your own, or you'd never feel right again. I didn't want to force you to go back, Buffy, I wanted to help you see where you belonged. I swear I never wanted to lie to you Buffy, but it was the only way. I was going to just help you get back and then that would be it, but I fell for you. Hard. And then I couldn't let you leave without being honest with you. I wish it could have been some other way... but I wanted to make love to Buffy Anne Summers, not a lonely, lost girl with no last name who doesn't know what she wants or even who she is.'

'I know who I am,' Buffy said quietly. 'Buffy. The Vampire Slayer. And maybe you made a mistake, but.... Do you know what it feels like to have your entire life ripped out from under you in the space of a few minutes? What it's like to have everything you've ever believed in turned right on its head, and to know there isn't a damn thing you can do about it? Because that's happened to me. Twice.'

'Actually, yeah,' Doyle said. Buffy looked at him with suspicion, so he elaborated.

'When I was twenty one, my life changed. I was married once. To lovely lady, by the name of Harry. Beautiful, and smart, she was. I never could figure out what she saw in me. But... I was somebody back then. Francis Doyle. The full name is Allan Francis Doyle, but I'd appreciate you taking that little secret to your grave. I was a third grade teacher, a newlywed, and I was happy. And then I found out that there was a side to me that I never even thought could exist. Something dark, and unnatural.'

'Something like being the Slayer?' Buffy asked, curious.

'No, not a save the world gig. Just a little thing called a demon father. Brachen demon. Buffy, I'm half demon.'

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Part 3

Doyle waited for her reaction. How would she kill him, he wondered. Would it hurt? When she didn't react, he looked at her. She was watching the sea, her features neutral. He started to speak again.

'I come from a long line of demons. Mostly harmless, far as I've discovered. I don't have any rampaging urges, I've never killed anybody, I don't like the flesh of virgins, or stealing treasure, or whatever it is demons traditionally do of a Friday evening.'

Despite herself, Buffy cracked a smile. 'Demon's Anonymous?' she suggested.

'That's an idea. 'Hi, my name is Doyle, and I'm a half-demon.' Somehow, I can't picture it. I guess I'm lucky I got my face from me mam's side of the family. Anyway, when I turned twenty-one, my unusual heritage went haywire, and... well let's just say the result wasn't pretty. I broke up with Harry, but that was more me than her. She was a good woman, and she was trying to work through it, but... I wasn't in a position where I could accept anybody's help, without seeing it as pity and disgust. I left her. And then I got my first vision. A relative showed up and asked for my help, but I refused. Said I had my own battles to fight. He died, along with a lot of others. And since then I've been doing nothing, until I saw you. And came here.'

'Oh... *Oh*... Doyle?'

'Yes?'

'What does... what do you look like? Underneath.'

'Oh, I don't know if I could-'

'Doyle?' Buffy interrupted.

'Yes?'

'It's hard for you, isn't it? You still haven't quite come to terms with it?'

Doyle looked down at the sand, and then up to find Buffy looking directly at him for the first time since he'd told her he knew her name.

'No. I haven't. To tell you the truth, Buffy, I don't think I ever will. I still can't quite get over the feeling that I'm... I don't know. Ugly. Half a man. Evil. Take your pick.'

Buffy scooted a little closer, and moved so she was directly in front of him. 'Doyle, look at me,' she ordered softly. He obeyed, blue eyes locking with hazel.

'Now, do you trust me?'

'Yes. I do.' He couldn't help himself, if Buffy told him to walk into a nest of vampires, he probably would, if she gave him the soulful, innocent look she was giving him this very moment. The look that said, Trust me, it'll be fun, and even though you're scared, I'll be there.

'Do you trust me to always tell you the truth? To never lie, no matter what? To be honest with you?'

'Well, you didn't tell me you were the Slayer,' he pointed out.

'And you didn't tell me you were a half-demon with visions, so let's call it even. Now, Doyle, do you trust me not to lie directly to you, unless it was something I felt had no relevance to you or to our relationship?' she amended.

'Yes, I do.' He wondered where she was going with this.

'Then listen to me carefully. I have only known you a few weeks, but I already know you are a good person. Honest and kind and gentle. One of the best friends I've ever had, and somebody I would trust utterly, even with my life. You are also one of the most beautiful people I have ever met, and I honestly don't think any amount of slime, or spikes, or claws, or horns, or whatever you get would change the fact that you're also beautiful on the inside. You're courageous, and forthright, and if anybody even thinks of you as less than a man, they can't have known you long enough, or at all. And I've come across a darn sight more evil than you have in my life, and quite frankly, I don't think anybody could mistake you as one of the bad guys.

'Let me see your other face, Doyle. I won't promise you I won't be frightened, or worried, or upset. But I will promise you that nothing can change the way I feel about you, nothing can diminish the love I feel for you. So let me see? Please?'

Doyle sighed. 'Buffy, you could talk your way into a top secret vampire gathering wearing a badge reading 'I'm the Slayer, I'll be killing you in about thirty seconds', carrying an entire wooden armoury.'

'Is that a yes?' Buffy asked lightly, keeping a smile on her face.

'You'll regret it,' Doyle said. 'But I'm damned if I can deny you anything, especially when you pout at me like that.'

'Like this?' Buffy asked, pursing her lips.

'Dammit, woman, you already got your way. Do you have to make this even harder on me? Hard being the operative word.'

Buffy's gaze dropped lower, and she gasped. 'D-Doyle?'

'Yes, Buffy, you bloody well did that to me? You always have. Now stop staring at my pants and look at my face.'

Doyle closed his eyes, not wanting to watch the repulsion or hatred surface on her face. Not wanting to see the look that had been staring back at him so many times from the mirror. His own self-loathing reflected in her beautiful, loving eyes.

Buffy held her breath as Doyle concentrated, and morphed. Blue-green spikes slid out of his face with a soft slicing sound, and she winced.

'Doesn't that hurt?' she asked softly.

Doyle opened his eyes at her gentle query to find not disgust but concern. Foundering for a moment, he replied, 'No. Just a little itching.'

'Oh. You have red eyes,' she observed.

'I do,' Doyle replied, uncomfortable under her close scrutiny.

'I like them,' Buffy decided. 'They look... cool.' It wasn't the right word, but it was the closest she could come to expressing her thoughts verbally.

Unconsciously, her fingers made their way up to his face, tentatively brushing against the tips of the spines on his left cheek. Soft pressure at first, barely felt except for the fact that Brachen spines were one of the most sensitive instruments around.

Buffy's fingertips felt like a thousand caresses, and that was when Doyle discovered that his spines didn't only magnify ordinary senses such as sight and hearing and touch and smell, but amplified others as well. He was able to sense Buffy's emotions through the touch of her hand on him, her love, her respect, her affection. No fear. No pity. No revulsion. Tenderly, she laid her hand over his cheek, smiling at him.

'I like them,' she decided. 'They don't feel hard or pointy or spiny at all. Soft and rounded and smooth. Can I...?'

She stopped speaking, and instead leaned forward. Doyle watched as her rounded, lusciously red mouth floated closer.

'Buffy, are you sure-?' And that was a mistake, because now her mouth was pressing against his spines, and the flood of emotion he got from her was almost too sweet to bear.

She came closer, sliding her lips over his spines, and they melted beneath her touch, sliding back into his skin, leaving his face smooth as if they'd never existed. His arms came up to hold her close and she kissed him harder.

When she pulled back, she whispered, 'Don't you dare ever doubt me again, Allan Francis Doyle,' and he sighed and shook his head. Not likely, he thought. He'd learned to not underestimate this girl.

'Doyle?'

'Mmm?'

'I... I have to leave. I have a bus to catch tomorrow, and....'

'I understand,' Doyle said, pulling away and standing up. Their intimate moment had ended. 'Let's get you back.'

'Doyle, what will you do, after this?' After I'm gone, she really wanted to say, but didn't. That would make it all too clear that this was their last time together, and she wasn't ready for that admission just yet.

'I don't know. Hang around a bit, I guess. Wait for the next vision.'

'Oh.'

They walked most of the way back to the apartment in silence. Just before they entered the building, Buffy put her hand on his arm, stopping him. 'Doyle?'

'Yes, Buffy?'

'Keep in touch, please. I don't want to lose you. Write to me.'

Doyle smiled. 'Try and stop me, Slayer o'mine.'

Giggling, Buffy took his hand and raced up the three flights to their place. When she swung the door open, though, the mood evaporated. The room was bare of her things, clean and functional. No more piles of unwashed clothes, no more week-old plates of food, no more knick-knacks. It looked unlived in. Doyle had always been the quiet one, buying little and keeping most of what he had in one corner of the room.

She frowned. Suddenly, she didn't want to leave. Didn't want to leave her beloved Doyle alone, but also didn't want to be alone herself. Didn't want to leave the safety of his presence. As if sensing the turn her thoughts were taking, he came up behind her and pulled her into a hug, her back pressed up against his chest.

'It'll be okay, kitten,' he murmured. His pet name for her, ever since she'd adopted a stray kitten that had been scrounging around the bins at the diner, and cried for three days straight when it got run over. 'I promise. You'll go back, and they'll be so glad to see you, and it'll work out. And soon you'll forget all about me.'

'Never,' Buffy swore, twisting in his arms till her tear-streaked face was buried in his warm chest. 'I'll never forget, I swear it. I'll always think of you, Doyle. Every night when I go to sleep alone and wonder why I'm so cold and lonely, and why my bed seems so big. Every morning when I wake up by myself. Every day at two thirty-five, when you don't show up to take me to lunch. Every day I'll miss you.'

'I'll miss you too, Buffy. All the time.'

'But I have to go back, and you have to follow your own path, and we have to say goodbye. But can it not be tonight? Please, let's just pretend tonight that we're okay, that nothing's changing.'

'Okay,' Doyle whispered holding her trembling body tight.

'Or maybe... maybe something can change,' she whispered, tilting her head back. 'Maybe some things need to change.'

And then she kissed him again, a kiss unlike any other that had come before it, and yet sharing something with all the others in that it was so utterly Buffy. Soft and tender and ferocious and desperate all at once. She kissed him desperately, and he kissed her back driven by exactly the same need.

She began to slide out of her dress, reaching her hands up to undo the zip, but he brought his own hands up and tugged the material off her slender frame for her, letting it pool at her feet. He unhooked her bra and she helped him get it off her arms. He reached up to the nape of her neck and ran his hands through her hair till he found the scrunchie holding it all back, tugging it loose so her golden curls cascaded freely down her naked back.

She kept her mouth moulded to his as she undid his shirt and pants, stripping him to his boxers. Then she slid a finger into the waistband of the cotton underwear and dragged them down past his hips and thighs till they fell to the floor, leaving him naked.

He had been running his hands over her heated body while she undressed him, tracing patterns in her back and abdomen, over her breasts, along her neck and cheeks. He paused in recording the curves and dips and peaks of her body to divest her of her panties, leaving her as naked as he.

He backed her up to the bed and they fell on it together, mouths and skin and bodies melding in a perfect fusion of flesh and soul. No words were needed as they explored each other, diving deeper and deeper, kissing and licking and caressing and rubbing and holding and loving.

Buffy sighed and bared her throat to Doyle, who kissed his way down the smooth column, down past her full, rounded breasts, heavy with desire and sweat, over her hardened nipples, down her belly until he reached the final destination, the juncture between her thighs. She cried out, soft, breathy pants of ecstasy as he brought her to the edge and sent her tumbling over, over and over again, crying out his name in a voice once dulled and then sharpened by lust and pleasure.

When he was finally satisfied with her pleasure, he moved upwards, settling himself between her thighs, willingly parted for him, and entered her.

She gasped, clutching him to her, and then began to move beneath him, demanding and promising at the same time. Soon, he was burying his face in her neck and panting harshly as she rocked beneath him, crooning her lovers' song. He came, deep within her core, his white-hot heat scorching her into another orgasm all over again, until she barely thought she could stay conscious.

And then he was merely a comfortably heavy bundle lying atop her, no longer the centre of her entire world.

She slipped into sleep long before he did, staying awake to memorise her beauty in this perfect, unguarded moment as she bared herself to him utterly, lying trusting in his arms.

And when he woke up, the room was empty, and so was his heart. Because she was gone, leaving nothing but the scent of her perfume and a single forgotten sock... and a note. Nothing on it beside a telephone number... but that was enough.

End