When Doyle finally opened his eyes, the room was dark. Not as opaque as that deep, black hole had been, but dark nonetheless. Momentarily disoriented and, thus, frightened, he quickly surveyed his surroundings; his eyes took in the shadowy figures of furniture, of draperies, of pictures on the wall. Even in shadow, they were all comfortably familiar. It was with a shaky sigh of relief that he realized that he was in his own room, that he was safe...that he was home.

He didn't remember actually entering this room, didn't recall passing through his front door. His last clear memory was of feeling an intense sense of relief that Gunn had not given him up to the enemy of his waking nightmares. He had a vague recollection of Wesley and Cordelia helping him onto the elevator, of seeing the doors close, of feeling the upward motion. After that, it was all a blur. Then nothing. He figured that he must have completely passed out somewhere between the elevator and the soft comfort of his bed. He had absolutely no clue as to what had transpired since then or how long he'd been out.

His visual inspection of the room had also shown him that he was alone. However, two chairs pulled up to the foot of the bed and one chair placed to its side led him to believe that this had not always been the case. He smiled slightly to himself as he thought of the three of them--Angel, Cordelia and Wesley--holding vigil at his bedside. He hoped they had gotten some rest too. It had been an arduous night for all of them.

Being alone had its drawbacks, however. Attempting to get out of bed by himself was one of them. In fact, just sitting up was a major challenge. Between discomfort, weakness, and the awkwardness created by the sling that still encased his nearly useless right arm, it was all but impossible. The pain was excruciating, the dizziness overwhelming. He closed his eyes against them both, forced himself to sit on the side of the bed, and then to stay there. The urge to lie back down and sink into the luxuriousness and safety of the blankets was difficult to overcome. He managed it with effort, opened his eyes when the pain and dizziness had both decreased to a tolerable level. His bedroom door was open a crack; he could see light shining from the rooms beyond. All he had to do was get up and walk toward it.

Easier said than done. Standing up suddenly felt like a marathon that he was being asked to run. "Angel? Cordelia?" His voice was a dry, rough, almost inaudible croak. No one further than a few inches away from him would be able to hear it. He doubted it would be long before someone came to check on him; he could, of course, wait for that moment, but he suddenly couldn't bear being alone one more second. He was too sore, too weak, too vulnerable...too scared. Too damn scared. He'd been through too much, been tortured and tormented far beyond his ability to cope. He knew that his tormentor was still out there, knew that he would come after him again. Thus he also knew that he wouldn't tolerate being alone--for too long anyway--for some time to come.

With a moan of agony he forced himself to a standing position. A wave of dizziness, weakness and pain washed over him, threatened to incapacitate him, forced him to grab hold of the piece of furniture nearest to him. With his right arm still in a sling, he had only his left one to support him. He closed his eyes, grit his teeth, stayed conscious and erect with effort. He waited until the worst of it had passed, then opened his eyes. The bedroom door seemed really far away. Still, he had to reach it...now. The walls were closing in; the first tendrils of panic and fear were beginning to set in. The more awake and aware he became, the more the terror progressed. For all he knew, he *was* alone. For all he knew, something horrible had happened while he slept. Angel, Cordelia, Wesley, Gunn. They could all be gone...and the fault would be his. Then it would be *his* turn to be gone.

He could stand it no longer. He had to get out of this room, had to see what was happening beyond that door, had to make sure that his already rocky world hadn't fallen completely apart. He forced himself away from the bed, lurched painfully across the room to clutch desperately onto the doorknob for support. It didn't offer much, but it *did* keep him standing. He knew that if he fell to the floor he would never be able to get up under his own, presently meager, power.

He had to wait until the newest wave of vertigo had passed before he could move again. He then slowly opened the door and stepped out into the short hallway. He glanced toward the bathroom; the door was open, the room dark. Using his undamaged left arm and hand for he support, he staggered along the wall toward the living room.

The room was well lit, but empty of human beings or a vampire with a soul. However, there was evidence of recent use: empty glasses, plates and crunched cans of soda on the table, blankets and pillows on the couch and in the chairs, books and videotape boxes on the floor. Doyle smiled slightly...at least they hadn't been bored.

He looked toward the equally bright kitchen, could hear the murmur of voices. He picked out Cordelia's unmistakably bright tone, and then Angel's quieter, more somber, timbre. He couldn't hear Wesley at all, but knew instinctively that he was also there. Relief flooded through him. They were still here. They were all right.

He wished the same could be said for him. His battered, painwracked, weak, blood depleted body was suddenly sending him some serious warning signals. He knew he couldn't stay on his feet much longer, felt dangerously close to passing out. He managed to stumble to the center of the room, leaned heavily on the back of the couch for support. He didn't want to lose consciousness again; the idea absolutely terrified him. He needed to feel his friends' presence, needed to know that he wasn't alone.

"Angel? Cordelia?" His voice sounded impossibly soft, weak and rough even to him. There was no way the occupants of the kitchen could have possibly heard it. He wearily reconciled himself to further travel.

The sudden cessation of voices and the sound of hurriedly scraping chairs told him that he was either wrong about the strength of his voice, or that Angel's acute sense of hearing had picked up his pathetic excuse for vocalization. He figured that the latter was more likely true. Within seconds, Angel, Cordelia and Wesley emerged from the kitchen, then rushed to his side with exclamations and expressions of worry, concern and dismay.

"Doyle..." Angel reached him first, didn't even bother to try and help him walk anywhere; he simply lifted the half-demon up into his strong, gentle arms, and then carefully lowered him down onto the comfortably soft couch. He then stood and stared down at him, a very disgruntled, parental look on his face. "What the hell are you doing?"

Doyle felt like a chastised child, but at least he *didn't* feel like he was going to slide into La La land anymore. "Well, I..."

Cordelia sat down on the couch beside him. She, too, looked reproachful. "I just checked on you a few minutes ago!" she interrupted ruthlessly. "You were sleeping!"

Her tone was almost accusatory, and the comment made no sense to Doyle's still numbed and traumatized brain. By this point, he figured that regaining consciousness might have been a grave mistake on his part. It was causing way too much trouble. "Well, I...I woke up," he stammered apologetically. "But I, uh...I can pass out again if you'd like me too. I...doubt it'll...be a problem." As if to confirm this statement another wave of debilitating weakness suddenly washed over him. He moaned softly, closed his eyes against the dizziness that was now assaulting him, desperately hoping he wasn't going to prove himself right.

Cordelia's tone immediately softened. She leaned over, put a gentle hand on his good shoulder. "Doyle, I'm sorry." She looked up at Angel who appeared equally as stricken. Her gaze went back to Doyle. "I think we're both feeling guilty about not being there for you when you woke up."

Angel nodded his agreement. "We should have been there. You shouldn't have been forced to deal with it alone."

Not for the world would Doyle have told them how frightened he had been upon awakening in the dark, lonely bedroom. Fortunately, the dizziness had receded. He opened his eyes, gave them a lopsided smile instead. "Listen you guys, I'm all right. It's been a bad time for all of us; you deserved a break. And it's not like you left the country or anythin', yeah?" He looked from Cordelia to Angel and then back again. "It's okay. I mean, you're here, right?"

"Right," Angel and Cordelia chorused together, but they still looked troubled.

Wesley had listened in silence. He, too, felt badly about Doyle's regaining consciousness alone, but he had other concerns on his mind as well. "How are you feeling, Doyle?" he asked as he walked to stand in front of the couch Doyle lay upon.

The half-demon looked up at the ex-watcher, and immediately saw the concern in his eyes. "I...don't know, man. About like you think I do, I guess."

Wesley didn't reply at once. He knelt down to examine the bandages that still covered the oracle's wounded abdomen and chest. He'd changed the dressings twice since Doyle's collapse into unconsciousness, and the half-demon hadn't even stirred. "It's looks as though you've stopped bleeding," he said in a satisfied tone of voice. He looked up into Doyle's pale, bruised and battered face. "You've lost quite a bit of blood, and you're badly dehydrated. You need some volume. I'm going to get you some water." Doyle's eyes followed him as he stood up, started toward the kitchen, then turned back. "Do you think you could eat something?"

The thought nauseated Doyle slightly, but he knew he needed nourishment. "What'd you have in mind, man?"

"Well..." Wesley thought about it a minute or two. "It should be something light." He smiled a knowing smile. "Cordelia made some of her chicken soup."

"Yeah?" The thought actually made Doyle feel hungry. He gave Cordelia a smile, then directed his attention back to Wesley. "That sounds good." Wesley nodded, started for the kitchen, stopped again at Doyle's, "Wesley?"

The ex-watcher turned, a question in his eyes. "Yes? Is there something else you want?"

Doyle shook his head. "No. I just..." Doyle paused as sudden tears flooded his eyes. "Thanks, Wesley. Thanks for takin' care of me, man. I...appreciate it."

Wesley nodded, smiled. "You're welcome, Doyle." He then walked across the room and entered the kitchen.

"Well," Angel said in a teasing voice. He walked around the sofa to sit in one of the comfortable armchairs. "It certainly looks like you've got *him* eating out of the palm of your hand."

"Really," Cordelia agreed. Then her eyes narrowed. "It sure took him long enough."

The comment reminded Doyle of the one member of AI who was missing from the room. He looked at Angel. "Where's Gunn?"

Angel shrugged. "I honestly don't know. We haven't seen him since...since that night."

"Do ya think that's wise, man?"

Angel shook his head. He wasn't sure what was 'wise' anymore. "He needs to figure out where he stands. Until he does, well, it's probably best if he just stays away." He leaned forward, met Doyle's gaze with his own. "I won't have him jeopardizing you, Doyle. I won't. Things are rough enough right now."

Doyle couldn't argue with *tha*. He just wished that things didn't have to be so damn difficult. He nodded, then changed the subject. Angel had referred to the night in question as 'that night', not last night or yesterday. Obviously, some time had passed. "So...how long was I out?"

Angel and Cordelia exchanged glances. "About...sixty hours," the vampire told him.

Doyle was startled. "What?"

Angel nodded. "Yeah. We were...getting kind of worried about you. That's why we were all in the kitchen. We were trying to decide what to do."

"But you solved *that* problem for us." Cordelia leaned over, gave Doyle a gentle kiss on the cheek. "It's good to have you back. It's, well, great, in fact."

"It's...great to be back. I..." Doyle stopped as Wesley came back into the room. The ex-watcher bore a tray laden with a steaming bowl of soup, and a large glass of ice water.

Wesley set the tray on the table before Doyle, then maneuvered the piece of furniture so that the half-demon could reach it easily. He plucked the glass from the tray, and handed it to Doyle. "Drink," he commanded.

Doyle nodded obediently. "Thanks, man." He put the icy glass to his lips, took a long, deep drink of the water; it felt wonderful sliding down his raw, rough, dry throat. So did the soup. He hadn't realized how hungry and thirsty he had been. Before long, both glass and bowl were empty. Doyle then gave a small sigh of contentment, looked to Wesley for approval.

The ex-watcher nodded, gave Doyle his most mockingly superior look. "Very good, Mr. Doyle."

Doyle had to laugh. "Thanks, man." His smile faded; his look turned deadly serious. "Listen, I um..." He paused, looked at them all in turn. "I hope you all know that...it was never my intention to cause all this trouble."

"Of course we do, Doyle," Angel told him. His look said that Doyle was stating the obvious.

"I know you do. I..." Doyle made a helpless sound. "I'm not sayin' this very well. I...came back to help, not to...hinder. But, all I seem to have done is...put everyone's life in danger."

"Doyle..." Angel began.

"No, I mean it, man," Doyle broke in earnestly. "You all coulda been killed the other night, and the fault woulda been mine..."

"No, Doyle," Wesley interjected firmly. "The fault would have been Saul's. He is the enemy here. It is *he* who threatens *you*."

"Yeah, what he said," Cordelia agreed.

"It's not just me, though," Doyle protested. "He threatens us all."

"And together we'll fight him," Angel said with a shrug.

"I know." Doyle nodded. "I just...I wanted..." He stopped, made a frustrated sound. "I just want to say thanks...thanks for standin' by me." Tears flooded his eyes. "You coulda given up on me the other night...but you didn't. I'm still here because you didn't. You saved more than just my life...you saved my sanity, you saved my soul." He looked up; the tears escaped his eyes, ran down his cheeks. "Thank-you. All of you."

"Oh, Doyle." Tears sliding down her own cheeks, Cordelia moved to take him into her arms and held him in a gentle embrace.

Angel got up from his chair, went to kneel before the half-demon oracle. His eyes gazed deeply into Doyle's blue ones. "You don't have to thank us, Doyle. We'll always be here for you...just as you're always here for us. It's where we belong. We belong together. And we'll make it through this, Doyle. We will."

Doyle could only nod his gratitude; he was afraid that if he tried to voice it any further he would dissolve into an uncontrollable round of sobs. He could only hope that no one would press him.

Angel understood. He gave the oracle's shoulder a gentle squeeze, then stood up to look down at him. His eyes twinkled as much as vampires' could, and his voice held a teasing note. "So, we've fed and watered you now...or rather, Wesley has. Is there anything else we can do for you?"

"Well, as a matter of fact..." Doyle looked down at his rumpled, torn, dirty, blood and sweat stained clothes, put a hand to his matted and lusterless hair. "I'm kind of a mess, aren't I?" He looked up at Angel. "A shower would be great, if," his gaze went to Wesley, "you think it's all right, that is."

Wesley appeared somewhat startled. When, he wondered, had been dubbed the resident doctor of the house? He supposed it was better than watchdog, and it did make a certain sense. He *had* been the one doing all the bandaging and diagnosing lately. He smiled to himself, made a big show of considering Doyle's request, then slowly nodded. "I don't see why not. You *will*, however, need assistance."

"I'll help him," Angel volunteered with a sidewise glance at Cordelia. It surprised him when the girl said nothing; she simply got to her feet and moved out of the way. Angel once again didn't bother to help the half-demon to his feet; he lifted him up into his arms, started toward the bathroom, then turned back. "Do we have everything we need in there?"

That depended on what the need was. "You should," Cordelia answered with a smile. She and Wesley watched as Angel and Doyle left the room.

Angel walked down the short hallway, stopped just outside the bathroom door. He then flipped on the light, entered the spacious room, and gently set Doyle down onto his feet. He watched as the half-demon closed his eyes, tried to regain his equilibrium and his sense of balance. His legs were obviously still very weak and shaky. "You okay?"

If one didn't count a relentlessly spinning head and a mercilessly throbbing body, then, yeah, he was fine. Just fine. "Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks."

Angel didn't reply. He stood at his friend's side, waited while he got his bearings, was ready to lend support and help however he was needed. He still felt very much responsible for the condition Doyle was in, still felt he that hadn't been vigilant enough, that he should have seen--and prevented--what was coming.

The half-demon gave a knowing smile. His 'radar' had cleared up a bit; he found he could read Angel's guilt ridden thoughts. He kept his eyes closed as he said, "It wasn't your fault, Angel. He's...like nobody we've ever come up against before. It's impossible to keep up with him, to know what he's gonna do next." He drew a shuddering breath. "Believe me, I know." He opened his eyes, looked up into Angel's troubled dark ones. "It wasn't your fault, Angel. You saved me. You coulda been killed savin' me." He gave the vampire a grateful smile. "And the thin' is, I know you'd do it again."

"In a heartbeat," Angel responded. "Not my own, of course."

Doyle nodded, chuckled softly. He then reached out and touched the vampire lightly on the arm; it was an almost tentative gesture, for Angel was usually the one to initiate contact. One never knew exactly when it was okay to invade the vampire's space. Angel didn't move; he waited for Doyle to continue. "Whatever happens, man, *whatever* happens, it won't be your fault. Know that." He paused, looked away, and once again closed his eyes. "It's a tricky business we're in, you know? Stuff happens when you deal with darkness every day. Some really *bad* stuff."

Angel silently agreed. He'd been dealing with darkness and 'bad stuff' for well over a century. The trouble was, no matter what he did, it seemed to be getting worse, not better. He'd told Doyle that he believed in good, and that was no lie...he did. But sometimes it was harder than others.

Like now, for instance. He watched as Doyle again opened his eyes, as his blue eyed gaze looked straight into the huge mirror that made up the far wall. He watched as Doyle's eyes widened with horrified shock, braced him as he sank down onto the powder blue chair that Angel quickly placed behind him.

"Oh God," Doyle whispered. It was the first time the half-demon had actually seen all the damage that had been done to him, the first time he could actually appreciate and understand exactly why he felt the way he did. He'd known it was bad; his pain and weakness had been clear-cut signs of that, but to look into a mirror and see it, to really and truly view the devastation that had been wreaked upon him was a vicious dose of reality. The mirror didn't lie; it was a true reflection of what was real, it was an honest reflection of the brutal truth. "Oh God, Angel." Doyle was unable to look away from what the mirror was showing him. He reached up his hand and touched his battered, bruised face. "Why aren't I dead, man? Why aren't I dead?"

Angel, too, had been staring into the mirror. In his case, the mirror *did* lie. Since he cast no reflection it appeared as if he wasn't even there. He was there, however; he was there at Doyle's side. He was there to stay. "Because you're strong, that's why."

"Am I?" Doyle continued to stare fixedly at the mirror before him. His hand moved from his face to his bruised and torn throat; he winced slightly as he touched the still fresh wounds.

"Those will heal, Doyle," Angel told him quietly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. I know they will." Doyle responded dispiritedly. "Until the next time. Until the next time he gets his hands on me. Until the next time he does this to me...or worse."

Angel moved to kneel in front of him, forced the oracle to look away from the mirror and into his own intense gaze. "There's not gonna *be* a next time, Doyle."

Doyle was grateful for the sentiment. However... "You can't promise me that, man. As much as you want to, and as much as I wish you could, you *cannot* promise me that. You know as well as I do, Angel...it's not that simple. It never will be. He's out there; he's not goin' away. He's strong, he's relentless...he's merciless. His 'soul' mission in life is to...destroy me." He looked away from the vampire; against his will, his eyes once again sought out his battered reflection. "Who am I, Angel?" he whispered. "Who am I *really*?" He tore his gaze away from the mirror to look at Angel. "Dealin' with darkness is one thin', man, but this...this is somethin' totally different. I came back because I wanted to help, because I thought I could do some good. Instead, all I may do is cause this world's destruction."

"Or save it," Angel contradicted. "Doyle..." He reached out, grasped Doyle gently by the shoulders, looked deep into his eyes. "You asked me who you are. You are the oracle to the *Powers that Be*. *That* is who you are. Beyond that...well, I have to confess that I don't know." He smiled. "But I *do* know that it's all good. I know that *you* are good. You're not here to cause this world's destruction, Doyle. You're here to make it better." He tightened his hold on the oracle's shoulders; the look in his eyes grew more intense. Doyle found it impossible to look away. "There are some things I can't guarantee you, Doyle, but I can promise you this...we're going to figure all this out; we're going to get the answers. We are." He watched as the half-demon slowly nodded his somewhat doubtful agreement. However, Angel decided that they could deal with his friend's apprehensions later. "But," the vampire said as he let go of Doyle's shoulders, then stood up, "not tonight. Tonight you're gonna get some rest and relax. Tonight we're gonna take a break. And we're gonna start by getting you into that shower."

Angel walked to the newly installed shower, pulled open the milky white door, reached into the stall and turned on the water. When he turned around, he was shaking his head slightly.

"What?" Doyle wanted to know.

"No soap. No shampoo," Angel told him. "Which shouldn't surprise me with Cordelia around. The girl must wash her hair about fifty times a day." He shrugged as if to say that you couldn't fight the inevitable. "I'll go get some...and some towels too. Stay there. I'll be right back."

Doyle nodded as the vampire walked out of the room, and shut the door behind him. Relax, rest, Angel had said. Easier said than done. He sighed heavily, leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes to prevent himself from staring at his battered image in the mirror. His mind still felt somewhat numb and useless. He supposed that being unconscious for sixty hours--not to mention nearly being bloodletted to death--could do that to a person.

Perhaps the shower would help. He could feel it heating up, could sense the wafts of steam begin to rise over the top of the semi-clear shower door. Oh yeah, the hot water was going to feel good.

He felt the need to speed things up. He reached up behind his neck and began to pluck at the knot on Wesley's sling. His efforts were stymied by his one handed status and by the fact that the hand was stiff and sore. He was about to give up on his endeavors when he suddenly felt a pair of hands helping him...a pair of soft and gentle hands that did *not* belong to Angel.

Doyle opened his eyes to look directly into the mirror. His eyes widened as he saw Cordelia--dressed fetchingly in a silk lavender robe--standing just behind him. It was her lovely pair of hands that gently pushed his lone hand away and began to deftly untie the knot in the sling.

Their eyes met in the semi-steamy mirror. "Co...Cordelia," Doyle heard himself stammer. "Wh...what are you doin'? Where's Angel?"

Cordelia's eyes quickly slid away from Doyle's to concentrate on her work. "In the hall...out cold."

She sounded frighteningly serious. "What?"

Cordelia's head snapped up at the slightly panicked note in his voice. "Doyle, I am *so* kidding," she told him. "As if *I* could knock Angel out. I...just thought you...might like *me* to help you." Her voice was full of disappointment, her dark eyes wide with embarrassment. Her hands fell slack at her sides. "I guess I thought wrong. I'm sorry. I'll get Angel."

He had to fight to find his voice. "Cordelia..."

"It's all right, Doyle. I don't want to do anything to make you uncomfortable," Cordelia told him, although the hurt in her eyes belied the words. "I'll..."

"No." Doyle closed his eyes, heard Cordelia stop, knew she was staring at him waiting for him to make up his mind. Problem was, he didn't know exactly what he was thinking; he was too overwhelmed. *Would* her presence make him uncomfortable? Yes, although he wasn't sure why. It wouldn't be the first time a woman would see him naked. He'd been married for crying out loud, and there had been...others. None for a while, though, even *before* his death, his half-demon status had made him somewhat shy in that respect; he'd never known when the beast within him would come bursting forth. However, Cordelia knew about his demon half; she would not be shocked.

So then, why *was* he hesitating? Was it because Cordelia was so young, and, despite one very unusual sexual encounter, inexperienced? Or was it because *he* felt so substandard, so out of control? Yes, other women had seen him naked, other women had 'helped' him take a shower, but no other woman had seen him while he was *this* vulnerable, this hurt. Not even Harry. Plus, he'd loved Harry, yes, but he had never cared for any woman the way he loved Cordelia Chase. For her to see him *now* while he was *this* exposed, *this* wounded, this assailable...well, yes, it made him uncomfortable. He would never be an Adonis, he would never have Angel's physique--he was too small and slight for that--but he could do better than *this*.

Cordelia appeared to read his thoughts. Maybe she did. "Doyle, I'll do whatever you want. But I promise I'm not gonna try and...jump your bones or anything. I'd..." there was an embarrassed pause, "kind of like you to be in a little better shape for that." Doyle couldn't help but chuckle at that. Cordelia seemed to find the sound encouraging, for Doyle felt her move from behind the chair to kneel in front of him. "Doyle, look at me." Doyle opened his eyes, found himself looking directly into hers; they were dark pools of compassion. "It's okay, Doyle. You're not going to offend me or anything here. The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable. It's just...I almost lost you the other night. I...want to be with you. I want to hold you. I want to help you, to take care of you, to be close to you. But if you want me to get Angel, I will." She started to stand up...

Suddenly, Doyle *knew*...he knew for sure. If there had been any lingering doubts, they were gone. *He* didn't just love *her*, she loved him too. She really, truly loved him too. And there was no one else on earth--or anywhere else, for that matter--who he wanted with him more *than* her. He reached out, grabbed her arm in a light grip. "No, don't get Angel. Stay."

She once again knelt before him, her eyes searching his. "You're sure?"

He nodded. "I'm sure. Stay, Princess. My Princess. Please stay."