Title: Alike in Suffering (FRED)
Allen Doyle - November 13, 2011 11:29 PM (GMT)
The Hyperion Hotel was definitely better than that hole in the wall office they had taken up in the first time around. Doyle liked this sweet little deal they had going. How Angel could afford it, when he claimed to have no money to get better offices. Cordelia had been most peeved. Doyle had thought it was quite humbling to work out of that cooky little stamp. This work was real and it was hard and it never ever stopped. There were always people to save. There were always people crying out for help, clawing at your skin, screaming and howling in pain and suffering. Doyle was now one of those people and he was desperate to hide it.
Cordelia wanted him to talk. Really talk. Doyle had been avoiding her with the greatest amount of effort: which wasn't easy when she was always around and he loved her. Talking didn't always help and Doyle was an expert at not talking. He functioned best in a repressive kind of way, where he tried his hardest not to think about that which he was running from, only to encounter it time and time again. Doyle had spun every which way with his demon inheritance until it smacked him hard on the face with the Lister demons. Fleeing for his sanity usually cost him his sanity, though Doyle wasn't too sure how much he had left.
With no where else to go and not a penny to his name, Doyle naturally stayed at the hotel. he was half surprised it wasn't full of strays, lost and helpless. There were too many people in the world to save. How could he save Angel when he couldn't even save himself? Doyle had had enough of staring at his wall from his position on the bed. his thoughts, black acrid words of steely ink printed themselves across the pale blue wall. Stray images of Lister Demons, Angel and Cordelia rose and faded. Agitated Doyle got up and paced before deciding that was a waste of his time. his stomach clenched. He hadn't eaten anything in the past week. As a demonic hybrid he could go longer without sustenance than a normal human, and longer still in demonic form. However Doyle didn't want to faint. he hadn't been eating much of anything since his return, not that he had ever been used to getting his fill before he died. Abandoning the conventional ways of living made for some rough living.
Doyle left his room behind and travelled down stairs with then intention of getting something for himself to eat. He walked down the endless staircase to the lobby at the bottom and padded softly across the wide area to the kitchen. He was at first, at ease but it wasn't long before a shiny, large knife snagged his attention. He didn't realise he backed himself against the wall, his breath heavy and his eyes. The blades were taunting him. He could feel it slice his skin, the steel cold against his heated flesh. He trembling all over. At some point, Doyle's eyes glazed over.
Winifred Burkle - November 15, 2011 04:53 AM (GMT)
It had been a busy, if relatively successful year. Of course, that was easy to say, being about three days into it, but Fred had long since learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth. The holiday season had passed with relative quiet, and gift giving, and she had to admit, if only to herself, that she was still in a somewhat dream like contentment after the holidays, and the conversations that she’d had with Wesley. Even the unexpected arrival of Wesley’s alter-space-and-time-dimensional daughter hadn’t been able to dampen her spirits, though it had tried awful hard for a few minutes there. Since Sofia’s arrival, Wesley had been loathe to leave the hotel unattended (though really, she knew it should be a substitution of ‘Sofia’ for ‘hotel’), and seeing as she hadn’t been exactly eager to let him too far out of arm’s length, she’d settled in for an overnight shift again. Not that it mattered all that much to her, where she was, as long as she had the basic necessities. Books, markers and a dry erase board like the ultra large one that Wes had graciously agreed to let her put in the nook of an office behind the front desk that had once been meant for bellhops or waitstaff, Wesley, and food, and she was pretty well set.
Though come to think of it, she mused, setting down the book that she’d been working on translating, it had been a while, at least a couple hours, she realized as she checked the clock, since she’d had anything to eat which would explain the low grumbling in the pit of her stomach. Wrinkling her nose upwards, she set aside the book and stuck her pen absent mindedly into her hair as she peered around the corner into Wes’ office, but opted not to interrupt whatever phone call he was currently on. She’d bring him back a sandwich. And tea. Though she was going to have hot chocolate, she decided, as she set off towards the kitchen, humming idly to herself under her breath. The Christmas carols had a way of sticking around for longer than they should, but she didn’t mind. Despite the fact that they were riddled with improbabilities and fallacies, they were entertaining – and catchy. She was debating exactly what sort of sandwich she was going to make, too, and wondering just how many layers she could stack on top of each other before the problem of actually compressing the sandwich enough to fit it into her mouth would prove impossible. One of the perks of the hotel, especially when it was as full as it was now, was that there was always food – and always a huge selection of it, meaning that no matter what odd ingredients she decided she wanted to stick together for her meal, or in this case, midnight snack, chances were she’d find it.
Swinging the double doors to the kitchen open, she traipsed inside, glancing around the kitchen out of habit more than any real expectation of seeing anybody, which meant that she had to actually do a double take at the impression of a figure pressed against the wall not that far from where the door had swung open. ”Doyle?” She questioned, curiously, blinking at him for a moment as she tried to figure out exactly what was going on. It took about a whole thirty seconds or less for her to realize something was wrong, her expression shifting from curious to concerned in the same amount of time as she noted the wide, dilated pupils, the pale pallor to his skin tone, the rapid breathing, the absolutely frozen stance. If he’d been clutching his head, or half doubled over, she’d be inclined to say he was having a vision, but there wasn’t any sign of immediate or concurrent pain. Just terror. Immediately, she swiveled, taking in the rest of the room, her shoulders stiffening as she went on her guard, but she couldn’t see anything that would bring him to that degree of alarm. She hurried to close the few steps of distance between them, a hand reaching out to gently catch his upper arm, to try and draw his attention at least long enough to find out what had gone wrong. ”What’s wrong?” Fred questioned, doing her best to keep her own tone steady, until she knew exactly what it was she might need to panic about, at least.
Allen Doyle - December 6, 2011 11:43 AM (GMT)
I try to be strong, to be brave, like a behave, like a hero
The holiday period, the festive season, the reason for joy and giving, whatever you wanted to call it, had failed to register with Doyle. He had not celebrated any kid of holiday since he moved out of his and Harriet's house more than four years ago. Times had been happy then. Holidays were those great stretches you had off from teaching other people's children how to count. He got to spend his with, at the time, love of his life - a blonde bombshell. Laughing and giggling they had had a wonderful time together. It was always over far too fast and Doyle was back at school, in the classroom with dozens of children who were down and rebellious over being forced back into their education. He'd work all day and sometimes he'd work all night too because you had to give the kiddies homework, and thus they gave you more assignments t complete than you would ever hand out to them. If you were lucky you were done by eight o'clock but let's face it, more often than not it was ten thirty or later and your wife was forced to entertain herself with some crappy programme on the television or an deep meaningful book that sent her to sleep. He would be in another room entirely, silence crushing down on him as he worked studiously away at making the product of young minds for hours on end. Sometimes tomorrow or next week they'd be back there doing the same thing in their separate world. Doyle had no idea how separate yet mashed their worlds were destined to become.
Doyle still didn't know what time of year it was. He barely knew what day it was - only every other day did someone mention if it was a tuesday or perhaps something was happening on a Tuesday so it could be any other day but that day or Monday. He should invest in a calender but time, measuring it just made everything far too real. Not so long ago time had no meaning to him. It's irrelevance had been a great comfort and all knowledge had little meaning. Up there, whatever 'there' was and if it was 'up' at all, had been one of the best times of his life. Getting married to Harry, meeting Harry and being demanded to ask Cordelia out (she fell for his abundant but unpretentious charms you see,) were amongst the others. It was such a shame the worst ones stuck out a mile and were far more potent than the good ones could ever be. That was just his personality. Never had he been particularly optimistic when it concerned his own well being, health and sanity. Doyle only had optimism for others. As a self pessimist he went over every little horrid detail that went wrong in his life with an alarming intensity until he drove himself to drink. Drink, Doyle had promised himself not to do but it was looking increasingly good these days. He never had considered himself an alcoholic but how can one not be after drowning in Whisky for four years? Jimmy D had been his only friend for good long while.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, Doyle did what he did best: he flipped the heck out and mentally went a bit mental. It was a more silent affair than discovering he was half demon which got very vocal after about ten minutes of shock and disgusted wonderment. Dealing with his demonic heritage hadn't been something Francis had handled with dead. in fact, he reeled against it so much he dropped his first and middle name and started calling himself just Doyle, refusing to acknowledge their had ever been anything more. His life, the way he lived, the wisdom he had gained from his experience all influenced people to think he was older than he really was. He was just 24 when he met Angel and he was just 24 when he died. He was a big kid really who had seen too much and knew too much about how life worked. He had left school only to immediately swap position with those who had been teaching them, then dropped out of academic life entirely. he wound up in Los Angeles breaking into Angel's apartment (too easy) and before he knew it he was burning with white hot pain. Only just had he accepted himself before life was taken from him in a heroic splurge of self sacrifice. But now he was back and he had to do it all over again and his lack of patter meant Tara had died. it didn't matter she was back. The Powers didn't forgive inaction: he knew that. How ever was he going to make up for doing the same thing twice?
That was what Doyle had wondered as he had walked down the stairs to the kitchen. Nor had he realised he was freaking out at the sight of a knife, that is, until Fred found him and touched his arm. Jumping back and away Doyle flinched in fear of a blow, only to find a pretty girl standing there instead. A pretty girl recently tortured by the same monster that tortured him. "Hey,"
Doyle said awkwardly. "Got yourself some silent moves there. What, do you walk on your toes are something?"
Doyle said hoping to ease the tension and not say 'Oh jeez ! you scared me! Don't do that to a guy!' because Allen Francis Doyle was not a walking cliche.
LYRIC CREDIT: I blame Hollywood: Olly Murs
Winifred Burkle - December 7, 2011 10:07 PM (GMT)
”You’re gonna tell me I need to wear bells, too, aren’t you.” Fred questioned, with a sheepish and small smile cast in Doyle’s direction, her nose and brow crinkling up a little bit in something of an apologetic expression. ”I’m pretty sure I’ve always been that way, but I’m also just as sure that spending five years in a hell dimension where people poke you with sticks and stick an exploding collar around your neck if they catch you, and try and chop off your head if you get caught stealin’ food probably only made it worse.” She explained, in her rambling and round out about sort of way, as she watched him, concern still lingering in her expression under the momentary embarrassment. ”Sorry.” She offered after a moment’s pause, realizing she hadn’t actually come out and said that part yet. She tended to do that a lot, even more now than she used to; thinking about things and thinking she’d said them only to realize they’d never left her lips. Probably had something to do with the months between her start on the road to recovery, and now, when she’d realized just how much absolutely nonsensical nonsense she’d spouted in the months and months before. She knew, logically, that not saying anything didn’t actually balance out saying everything before, but… she was pretty sure that at least Wesley was probably tired of hearing her going on about every little thing that wandered through her brain and rolled off her tongue during her months of madness.
Not that he’d ever say it of course. He was too much of the gentleman, not that different from the man who struggled to regain his composure and breath in front of her. She was pretty sure that most people would have taken one look at Doyle and scoffed at the title of ‘gentleman’ for him, but Fred knew otherwise. She’d seen the way he was with her, and the way that he doted on Cordelia, and the protective manner that he herded around all of the Senshi. Sure, he swore sometimes, and he gambled, and he often smelled like the scotch that he favored, but that wasn’t what mattered to Fred. She’d learned a long time ago about armor, and defenses, and caves and the fact that no two people’s were the same. ”Are you okay?” She asked, a little hesitantly, after a moment, her hand reaching out to rub reassuringly at his upper arm, the action a little awkward but still heartfelt. ”You look like you’ve seen a ghost –“ She paused, briefly, musing over her words. ”Which might be an actual possibility, given the history of the hotel, but… “ She looked at him again, her soft brown gaze slipping up to meet his, searching his expression. ”I don’t think that’s it.” She admitted, quietly. She didn’t necessarily exactly expect him to just up and spill out whatever it was that had him on edge, and looking like someone had just danced a jig on his grave… but she wanted to make sure he knew that it was okay, if he wanted to.
”I was gonna make a sandwich, for me and Wesley – you want one too?” She questioned, offering with a warm smile as she took a few steps back and drifted in the general direction of the huge, industrial sized fridge and pantry that the hotel boasted. She loved Wesley’s smaller, cozy kitchen, sure, but being able to actually walk into a pantry full of food and soak it all in was a sensation she would never get tired of. If she wasn't pretty sure she’d grow to be four hundred pounds and never ever actually serve any food, she would be a chef, just so that she could have an excuse to order all the food she ever wanted.
Allen Doyle - December 25, 2011 11:19 PM (GMT)
Life went on. that was the most horrible thing when you were trying to get your head around a horrid situation. As he sat there, in his room, his head still spinning from thoughts replayed, the time marched on. The world outside his window changed each passing day. Dawn rose, night fell, people walked to and from work and he stewed in his room like it was the greatest past time in the world. the air was stale, there was no mess because he had no belongings to really create a mess, though his clothing was in a messy heap on the one side. His bed, with a horrid beige pattern, was unmade and heavily slept in. He had been doing a lot of sleeping, a lot of tossing and turning and a lot of avoiding shutting his eyes. The image of Angelus's face was seared on the backs of his eyelids so that attempting sleep was a cruel task in itself. He could still hear the whispers, the taunts, the jeers, the lies and the cruel uncut truth coiled around his cochlia, cutting to his core. What angelus said was true on most accounts. The one thing that homicidal psycho was, was honest. He liked to use the truth as a weapon, whilst most use lies to do much in the same. There was a bitter sting, a poignant flavour when the truth you didn't want to hear, didn't want to know was thrown so harshly in your face. Angelus did it well. Doyle was good at running from the truth.
The kitchen was the best view Doyle had had in quite some time. it was fresh, and clean and tidy and its walls were in a different arrangement to his little box. The kitchen was all shiny and chrome. It was a much better view than the one he had been allowing his eyes to see of late. The full view of the kitchen was a welcome sight not that he was taking it in. Yet the edginess remained due to the knowledge of the numerous sharp instruments lurking within the confines of the drawers. Knives could be used to cut and scrape and slice, to peel the skin off in layers, stab or skewer. Hot knives burned, as did the chilling cold. The sight of them brought terror to his chattering bones. Doyle knew knives well now. He preferred to steer well clear of their very existence - the word taboo in his mind. He wanted nothing to do with them. He didn't want to handle one, nor did he want others to have them in their nimble fingers nor did the sight of them have a neutral effect. He should have expected this. He should have remembered the kitchen is where normal people keep knives and such.
"You're not a bovine creature," Doyle replied. Fred should not wear a bell like that cow thingy which was all red and winked. Why they thought a smiling cow was a good advert Doyle had no idea. That weird cow thing was just creepy in Doyle's book. He had known a good four kids scared of the damn thing. "Maybe you should carry a whistle," Doyle joked. Doyle listened to her life in a hell dimension and was very glad he had managed to avert his course down that bottomless pit of horror and pain. Doyle couldn't imagine what it would have been like. Fred hadn't died so it was probably not a dimension he could have been sucked into (but one never really could tell). "Almost ended up in hell meself," Doyle replied. "Managed to avert that course to something more shiny and happy," He added. Hell had to be a sensitive subject for the girl, evidence in her spiralling rambling.
Doyle shook his head. He was fine. He was always fine. He was fine even when he wasn't' fine which was the beauty of being a well refined dodger of a fragile mental state. The cracks in his mind were all filled in with dusty poly filler. He was good at hiding from the world and even better at hiding from himself. He could sense that Fred was also good at hiding herself away from the world. He could sense a kindred spirit within her and that brought a sliver of comfort to him. "Oh yeah. I'm great," Doyle said before going to look for the whisky. There was some here, he knew there was. Steeling himself, legs shaking lightly he walked past the knife, trying not to eye it like it was going to jump out at him and stick into his skin. He opened several drawers, banging them shut quickly when he saw silver instruments before striking gold in a cupboard. he shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't touch the stuff. But he did. It was all too much this. He had tried not to go back on the booze but he just couldn't take facing that devil creation without some liquid steel. Doyle poured a glass because even he had enough class to reject drinkin straight from the bottle (unless he was on the street) and took a large gulp. He felt slightly better already. Doyle down the rest and poured another glass.
"thanks, that's be great, Doyle said, not feeling as though he could make one hismelf. He would have to come face to face with a knife and that wouldn't end well. "This place is a lot nice than the little place I had to live with before," Doyle said. "though Angel does have a good sense of style," he commented, thinking of angel's apartment beneath the offices.
Winifred Burkle - December 27, 2011 10:38 PM (GMT)
It wasn’t his fault, really. She knew it – she knew that he’d had far heavier things on his mind since his return than worrying about the hundred little buttons that had been programmed into the fractured psyche that created one Winifred Burkle. For example, the fact that he’d been brought back – death was one thing that Fred had never had to experience, and she desperately hoped to keep it that way, despite the fact that there had been a long time there that it had seemed like a good idea, a better solution than this. No – than that, she mentally clarified. Who she was now was not the same as who she had been during the months and months that she’d spent hiding in the dark and jumping at shadows, and she strove to make that clearer to those around her with each passing day, each small improvement a milestone. Of course, the quiet blanching, and the shudder, at his reference to the ‘bovine creature’ probably counted as at least a half step back, though she quickly recovered, or at least did on the surface. Cows. She hated them, taking almost an obscene pleasure at times now, from the eager consumption of their flesh, even though logically she knew that the creatures had no fault at all, and could not really be blamed for the fact that in Pylea, the humans had thus been dubbed ‘cows’ and treated with less care than the cows on this world (at least where animal rights were in place) were. ”No.” She declared emphatically, with more force than was really necessary, causing her to look a bit guilty in the next moment. ”No, I’m not a cow.” She said, with a little less force, but no less intent.
Her head ducked down slightly, a shallow breath taken in as he carried on, her nose wrinkling upwards a little at the mention of his near-miss with hell, a reminder of his own trauma that made her feel guilty, briefly, for thinking about her own. He had suffered, more than she could imagine, or wanted to, having been at Angelus’ mercy – after having been brought back to life with the intent of preventing that exact sort of thing from happening. If she had been any crueler, she might have blamed him, for her suffering, but she knew when it was boiled down to the truth in a nutshell there was only one person that she blamed: Angel. ”Happy is good.” Fred offered, with a flicker of a smile, as she tried to pull herself from the darkness in her thoughts. It was an effort, every moment, not to let herself slip away to the shadows, to the quiet and the darkness, where she could be alone, and didn’t have to fight to be happy, didn’t have to scrabble for peace, but could instead just let herself feel nothing, let the cold numbness creep in. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She had a chance, now, for a life, for happiness, for true happiness, and love, and if the cost of that was moments of terrifying panic when someone accidentally stepped on a crack in her mental or emotional armor… she would gladly pay it.
He brushed off her questions, waving off her concern, though she knew better. She could see it, in his rumpled clothes, in the dark shadows under his eyes and the creases in his forehead, and at the edge of his eyes that feigned amusement, but were dark with grief and agitation, and stress. She felt another pang of empathy, impulsively reaching out to hug him – it didn’t last long, she didn’t want to impose any more than she already was, but she couldn’t resist the urge. Sometimes people just… needed a hug, and she suspected this was one of those moments for him. She just wished she could do more. ”I’m sorry.” She offered quietly, with a lopsided and faint smile, watching him for another long moment before drawing back and leaving him to sort himself while she turned her attention back to the task at hand. Food was the perfect distraction, at least in her opinion – he seemed inclined to opt for drink, which was not all that uncommon from what she had seen. Fred had lost count of how many bottles of the whiskey Wesley had gone through in the last year. He had somehow almost always managed to time his attempts to drown his sorrow and guilt just right, however, there had only been once or twice that she could recall having sought him out to find him lost in the ramblings brought on by the alcohol. He was drinking much less of it now, a relief to her, and she hoped that the time would come that Doyle wouldn’t have to rely so heavily on the alcohol either, but she was not the type to scold, not usually.
She wasn’t sure if it was the sense of connection, of the feeling of a kindred spirit, or just a random spark of boldness that encouraged her to her next motion, but she turned briefly, plucking up a glass from the shelf and plunking it down on the counter beside the bottle, tilting it slightly in his direction. ”Hit me.” She requested, aware of the mixed metaphors, and that this was not in fact a game of poker, though it did seem to have a similar feel as they both clung to their poker faces so stringently. ”Yes – he’s always had that.” Fred admitted, a little reluctantly, as the topic somehow found it’s way back to Angel again. How was it that that always happened? ”The Hyperion was once one of the elite hotels of L.A.” She offered, as the random collection of knowledge cross referenced in her thoughts. ”Right up until a whole slew of murders and suicides back in fifty-two. A wrath demon – we had to exorcise it before we could settle into the offices here.” She explained, with a small shrug.
Allen Doyle - January 7, 2012 12:06 AM (GMT)
Doyle wondered what it might be like to meet a whole person, if there was such a thing as a person not at all broken. Perhaps the closest one could get was a child: innocent, not yet marred by the depravity of life, chaste, and cool, energetic like those Duracell Bunnies and not jaded by the acts fate sent their way. Some events you couldn't escape from not matter how hard you fought or how far you ran. Doyle knew that. Children on the whole didn't have to worry about such things. The lucky ones were happy for their entire childhood but hit slippery milestones once they hit their teens: pubescence was a bitch. They had both parents, perhaps a sibling to war with or take care of, or even be attached at the hip with. They had a bundle of friends, laughed a lot, went to parties and play dates and went out to the cinemas and had no worries at all besides what to wear and if they were going to pass that test. They were the kids that were whole and not at all broken or even slightly askew. Doyle wasn't totally straight and plain when he was a kid. He had things to worry about. He worried about whether his mother would come home with big, bright worried eyes and announce they were leaving in the next couple of days and he should pack his things. He was concerned and suspicious over the fact his mother never spoke about his father, and avoided all talk of him. Doyle quickly learned it was best not to ask because she had the tendency to cry after he asked and he didn't want her to shed tears over a guy who wasn't here. He figured he must have done something terrible and who was he to remind her of that horrid time? He had to deal with jokes about jibes about not having a father and it must have been something to do with him being a freaky little kid or something mean like that. Doyle always had been a little bit broken. Discovering the demon inside screwed him the hell up. Angelus didn't help either.
Oh right. Doyle completely touched a nerve there. He wasn't sure what it was about Cows that Fred didn't like but apparently she took issue with them. Maybe it was benign and she just got all freaked by the big, dumb creatures that somehow knew it was going to rain and promptly lay down. No one deserved to be called a cow and anyone who ever called Fred that deserved a whole lot of pain. Doyle often attempted to hide the fact he's a gallant kind of guy and always treated women with respect. It was a chivalry instilled in him by his mother who was the salt of the Earth as far as Doyle was concerned. She was the most amazing lady ever to walk the Earth and all children should feel that way about their mothers. it was a terrible shame that a lot of children didn't, and they did not necessarily treat their siblings with the same affection either. Doyle could see that if Cordelia wasn't already in the centre of his attention that Winifred could easily have piqued his interest. he had, after all married Harriet, a sweet girl who was nice, kind, caring, compassionate, benevolent and caring. She had looked after him and he her and everything had seemed so rosy. That was until he discovered his demonic heritage through one blue pin sprouty session he could have lived without. He knew Fred was entirely human which was good. Nasty surprises like that never ended well for anyone - especially the person experiencing it. "Of course not," Doyle affirmed, just in case she got thinking she was anyway. She was too sweet to be thinking like that.
"Yeah," Doyle said, eyes far away as he thought about the third good thing he managed to do with his life. First he marries Harriet, which was great, only he ruined it like the idiot male he was. Second he saves the Listers from the Beacon and prevents Angel from dying when it wasn't necessary. The last one was getting himself into heaven, not that he was certain how he managed to do it but it had something to do with his lack of thought for his own safety rather than the self sacrifice itself he was sure. Self sacrifice in the hopes to gain passage into heaven probably not going to get oneself the ticket to everlasting peace. The Powers were fickle and doyle couldn't pretend to understand them. But he was grateful, nonethless, that he had been allowed to see heaven. "Idiot I am gave up eternal peace to screw everything up again," Doyle replied. "It's what I do best," he said with a shrug before pouring more whisky. "I gave up eternal happiness, for this," he stated more to himself than Fred. He was zoning out again, a problem he had developed since being tortured by Angelus and coming back from the dead. It was all messed up really. His head was no pretty place but that wasn't unusual for him.
Doyle frowned at Fred. OK, so he was uncomfortable with that hug and he was totally not sure what she was apologising for. So he remained stiff in her embrace which luckily did not last long at all. he was glad. He didn't want physical contact just yet. Normally he would have been cool with a hug from a female creature but right now all physical contact, benign or not was off. "What for? You didn't almost send me to hell or force me to give up paradise to help Angel get back on track - a duty which I'm failing by the way," Doyle hadn't really spoken to Angel in a year. Besides re-soul him, or tell others that his shiny soul was stuck in a jar, oh and the gratuitous torture, Doyle had had limited contact with the undead male for the past three hundred and sixty five days. Oh, maybe that was harsh. Was that harsh? He hadn't meant it to be he was just kind of defensive right now.
Doyle smiled at Fred, surprised. Normally people try to get him to stop drinking or look at him with pitiful disdain and lecture him on the affect it has on his liver. Here she was just asking for a drink. And who was he to deny? She looked young but yeah, so was he. He started drinking at twenty one and he was only twenty four now (excluding the years he missed being dead). People always thought he was older than he really was. Doyle poured himself and her a drink - hers first of course, as a good gentleman should always do. Doyle will tell you he's not a gentleman but it's the little things that give him away. "Do you mind me asking what age you are?" how did a young lass like her get involved in all of this. Cordelia's story he knew, and Wesley was an ex-Watchery person and Lorne, well he was a demon but so far Fred just didn't make sense. He hoped it didn't have anything to do with cows: that was just freaky.
"What is it with demons? Not all are evil and want to suck your brain out through your eyeballs. And why are they so often green? Why green? Or grey. Grey's a favourite too," Doyle said sounding like he didn't like demons at all, which he supposed he didn't in general but he liked some of them. Some demons were good guys. Did Fred know he was half? That might have been missed in the yelling and the running away from the evil undead torturer. "Yeah. You get the swishy hotel and I got cramped tiny little office with too much sunlight. I just had to die before the fun really started," Doyle said talking himself down like he always did. He was good at that. "And not many people can say that," Not many people die and come back.
Winifred Burkle - January 28, 2012 12:42 AM (GMT)
Fred couldn’t help but offer Doyle a smile as he assured her, rather heart-felt-edly, in her opinion, that she was not a cow. She wasn’t sure if he knew exactly what she was referring to, and she couldn’t blame him if he didn’t. It wasn’t everyone else’s job to know her particular warning buttons, after all. It was her job to keep other people from stomping on them. She had to learn how to control herself, and her emotions and her reactions, if she was going to be able to prove to Wesley that she could really do this, that she could help, and be strong again. Her brows furrowed a little, as Doyle berated himself, her thoughts quickly drawn back to this moment and this conversation, and these words. ”No – no, that’s not true. You gave up eternal peace to try and help, and to save people, and that’s about the noblest thing there is, if you ask me. Which…” She hesitated a little, her nose wrinkling upwards a fraction, her lips pursing. ”You know… you didn’t, exactly, but I told you anyway, cause it’s true. You were brave, and you tried, and we can’t really ask for anything more than that, can we? Not that we really asked in the first place, or ask now, but it’s just. Well. I think you did an amazing thing. You gave up everything, twice.” She said, with a smile, her hand reaching out to pat lightly against his shoulder.
She drifted past him, then, rummaging through the hiding places that food inevitably ended up tucked away at in the kitchen, plucking out bread and condiments and meats and cheeses and vegetables from the fridge and the walk in and under the counter and in the cupboard, meandering as she talked. ”And, and that’s not true. You make Cordy smile. And that isn’t as easy as it sounds, you know. Well, you do, I gather. Know that, I mean.” She started, and stopped, then, her expression showing briefly that she’d managed, for a minute there, to confuse even herself with that, and she just sort of shrugged it off, twisting open the bread bag and pulling out six slices of the homestyle thick white bread to lay out in neat rows of three each on the cool metallic counter island where she had set up her work station. Her gaze slipped downwards, as he spoke of Angel, concentrating on her work as she organized the food, sorting out what Wesley would want on his sandwich, and what she would want on hers. ”You shouldn’t fret about it, so much. He’s back, now, and… he’ll work it out. He always does, right?” She spoke, quietly, after a moment, her gaze turning back up towards Doyle. This was not the first time that Angel had had to reel back from the disaster that Angelus had left in his wake. He would survive, he would brood, he would move on, because he had to. She hated him a little for that, though she tried not to.
She knew, in her head, that they were not the same. But it was his voice, his eyes, his face…. ”Oh, me? That’s sweet, but I’m twenty – “ She said, with an easy laugh, as she paused, taking a moment to calculate properly. It was still difficult, sometimes, with that last year or so of her life that was something of a fugue, though she refused to think of it, now. ”—four… “ She confirmed, brushing her hands off and coming back to the other counter where Doyle leaned, her glass waiting for him to pour. ”Oh, don’t worry, I used to drink all the time.” She assured him, seeing suddenly where his question was coming from, though just as quickly realized how her response might have been taken. ”Well, no – not like all the time.” She said, her cheeks flushing then, as she stammered around her words. ”I just mean, well, college. And don’t let it fool you, there’s nobody that makes better moonshine than science nerds.” She finally settled on, with a sheepish smile, looking relieved when her glass was filled and she could take a long swallow of it to interrupt the awkward moment. She looked a little relieved when the topic changed, her lips touched with a smile again as he spoke of the demons, even if the topic was something that most people would find disturbing, if not downright appalling or frightening.
”Oh, no. I’ve met quite a few demons that have been nice, and some of them in rather lovely shades of purple or yellow – one that looked just like a sunflower walking and talking, cept for the… actual flower part, but yeah. Lorne’s green, but he’s not evil, or brain-eating, at least I’m pretty sure about that last part, he doesn’t really keep up with many – or any, of the Pylean customs, so that really shouldn’t be an issue. He’s really nice, though, really, and he likes to give people food, which is good, cause I eat a lot.” She said, rambling on quite contentedly now, though at the mention of food it did remind her that she had been in the middle of something, as she slid a few steps back towards the long island counter, taking another drink of the alcohol before setting down her cup for a moment. Her lips pressed together, as she savored the taste of the stuff. It was a good stock, though it burned like heck going down, it wasn’t eye watering or breathtaking (literally) which meant it was worlds better to her than most of the anything in Pylea, and her college dormitories. She chuckled a little, as she pulled off slices of meat from the packages of deli meats to lay over the condiment-brushed sandwiches as she continued to speak.
She shook her head a little, with a flicker of a smile as she glanced up towards him, one hand rising to push at the bridge of her glasses and settle them more evenly on her face. ”No such thing as to much sunshine, really, less you’re a vampire, of course, but there’s nothing much better than soaking in the sun in the garden or on the beach, excluding the sand between your toes of course, and in your pockets and everywhere that sand gets that it ought not to – but I digress.” She said, pausing for breath, and another swallow of the drink, feeling a little more confident and a little more rambly with the warmth of the lcohol starting to settle in her stomach. ”And now, you have the swanky hotel too, though. Though I don’t really have the hotel so much anymore, since Wesley took me in, after… Not that I’m complaining, or anything, though, really. I like staying with Wes. He makes pancakes.” She informed Doyle, with a secret little giddy smile that wasn’t quite nearly as secret as she thought it was, as her gaze drifted down to the sandwiches that she was making and her thoughts wandered on to the breakfast in bed that had come that morning, and the not eating that had followed not that long after. She cleared her throat, though, after a moment, and turned a smile back up to him as she tried to offer him something that sounded even close to comfort, or at least, she hoped it would.
”But maybe it’s a good thing. Clearly, not the dying part. But you’ve got another chance now, don’t you? And sure, it … isn’t all brown paper packages and strudel and whiskers on kittens, but that’s life, isn’t it? You’ve got Cordy, and she loves you, and you love her, and you have friends and – you died saving the whole world, and now, you’ve got the chance to know what coulda been – not many people can say that either.”
Allen Doyle - February 8, 2012 12:40 AM (GMT)
Eternal Peace, yes. He had forfeited his right to help a friend, and a few friends of friends who would suffer greatly without a helping hand. The peace he had felt, whilst dead in heaven, was like none other he had experienced. It was true contentment, free from all worry, anxiety, and stress. For once in his life, Doyle had been free from himself. He never had thought of himself particularly highly. Always he had been unusually hard upon himself, especially after his demon heritage presented itself. Now he was doomed, to repeat the mistakes which so filled him with fear. he was doomed a life of pain and suffering, at the hands of ones he would dare call friends. His experience with Angelus had undoubtedly scarred him greatly. What had healed had reopened as bleeding gashes. He was gushing pain, and he knew not how to repair any of it. Peace had been the reward he had earned, and pain was the price he paid for coming back. He was little more than a hindrance which floated around the Hyperion Hotel looking increasingly worse for wear. He no longer knew how to help them. He never had known how to help himself. "There wasn't much to give up, first time around," Doyle replied denying he had done anything heroic at all.
Doyle attempted not to follow Fred's movements. he did not wish to see her cutting and slicing and dicing. It reminded him too much of the knife Angelus had held to his skin, tormenting his too sensitive skin with. The pain had been unlike any other he had experienced. He knew his capture had been the result of his own foolishness and yet he could not help but think the Powers knew that this was his path. They had sent him back to be tortured, and he was blind to their reasons. He it was so arrogant, so foolish, so self righteous that his pain had been planned and not left to mere chance, but he didn't believe in coincidence any more. The Powers saw all roads, their plans veiled but they knew, they always knew. he had done them a service, and he had been rewarded for it, and when they asked again for him to serve them Doyle had thought about it very little. Angel had been in trouble, and the world was worse for it. It hadn't been much of a decision at all. Doyle frowned. "He's back because we made him," Doyle said. "He left because he was careless," Doyle added. Yes. he blamed the vampire for this this time. the last time, how could he have known that sex with Buffy would have released his soul? But this time was entirely different. It had been a ritual to force his soul to flee under the guise of humanity, which the Powers would not grant so soon. Angelus had committed many vile horrors for which he had to repent and make up for before he was granted humanity. Four years wasn't enough time for the century of blood stained torture he had forced upon the land. "Each time he fails, it gets a little harder," Doyle replied, not sure if he was talking about Angel or himself.
He knew afterwards, that he should have had more tact. Fred was also attacked by the wrath of Angelus, for being sweet and kind and around. They all cared very much for the girl, that much was clear, and causing her harm was a good way to cause them all a vast amount of pain. Angelus's victory would linger through the cracks and fissures he caused in others. Fred was holding up very well, from the outside looking in. Doyle was visibly not coping. he never had been able to deal with any kind of pain very well, often lashing out like a cornered animal when he should be seeking comfort. At 24 he found changing very difficult to learn. He could only imagine how hard it is for Angel, who had a life time of cruelty to put at rest. And yet, part of Doyle was angry with him, and another frightened, while the rest remembered the man he once knew and fought for.
Suddenly, he realised, she was talking. She was saying about how she was also 24, and that she was used to alcohol. Doyle didn't know a 16 year old who hadn't tasted the fermented fruit on their lips, let alone someone over the age of 18. he was making no judgements here. at some point in their lives, everyone tastes alcohol for one reason or another. Some decide they love it, perhaps too much, others like it, others drink it in moderation and some don't touch the stuff at all. Doyle drank too much, too often and liked it too much too. It was the only coping mechanism he had. Old habits die hard, and while at one point he might have been able to stop, he wasn't able to now. It was a comfort blanket he had long since clutched to his chest. It wasn't really a good habit to take up. He wished someone had told him that before he started, not after. Then again, he always had been to stubborn a fool. "I was just asking," Doyle smiled tightly. "People tend to think I am older than I am," he returned, with a shrug. It was his strange world-weary wisdom that did it, he thought. The words that often came from his mouth were not fitting for a 24 year old. But Doyle had seen much of the world.
Doyle smiled and she spoke. She really was a cute girl. He could see why Wesley liked her. She'd be good for him, Doyle thought. She would soften down those rougher edges that built up over the years. He was strong enough to take care of her (not that women were helpless, Doyle didn't believe for a second they were), whereas Doyle couldn't even take care of himself. What Cordelia saw in him he'd never know. There was cracks all over him, from before and from now. He'd never be whole again. "Most of them just want to live in peace," doyle said. "Especially the hybrids," Doyle added. He was a hybrid himself and knew they just wanted to live out their lives in peace, and without fear. He was lucky he could show his face in society without being immediately lynched. Some half humans, half demons could only come out once a year without fear of persecution: Halloween. Such beings tended to dislike the holiday for its cliches and mocking atmosphere. "Pylean?" he asked. Was that a group of demons, a dimension, a sect, a cult? A ritualistic murder that took place once ever five years on the eve of Pancake Tuesday? There was a lot about the world Doyle did not know and never would. There were things he didn't want to know either.
"I'm not a hero. Just a messenger who happened to save a few Lister demons from the Scourge," Doyle replied. "Repenting is actually rather complicated," he shrugged, poured another whisky and downed it promptly. "It's nice of you to say so though, Pebbles,"
Winifred Burkle - February 16, 2012 08:07 PM (GMT)
Fred looked up again at Doyle’s first words, shaking her head slightly at his first words, offering him a slight smile as she spoke up. ”That’s not true at all. You had life. And tacos. And Cordelia, and Angel, and you should have heard the way that they talked about you… you know, before you came back. That video of you doin’ that commercial for the team?” Fred mentioned, as she laid out perfectly proportionate sections of meat and cheese onto the various condiments already set out onto the sandwiches spread out in front of her. ”She didn’t want anybody to know, really, but she used to play it’all the time when she didn’t think anybody would notice.” She confided, with a quiet sort of grin at the admission. ”And… one life, or whole bunches, you did something heroic…. That’s worth remembering. And being proud of,” she said with a nod, though as she watched him and the emotions on his face that there was more going on behind the half lowered eyes than he was willing to talk about. She felt for him, and if she thought he’d’ve let her, she would’ve given him another hug, but he hadn’t seem all that keen on the first one.
Her gaze slipped downwards at Doyle’s mention of the re-ensouling of Angel, her hand creeping up briefly to rub at the edge of her neck, a sudden flash of self-consciousness, but she pushed it away quickly. She had started to speak, but the next words that he uttered made her pause, her brows furrowing as she looked up at him. She hadn’t thought about it. It seemed glaringly obvious. The gap in the story, the hole in the timeline – she didn’t know what it was, how it was that Angelus had gotten loose. Her features scrunched up, as she wracked her thoughts, then, trying to recall if she had heard some piece of it that she’d just chosen to forget in the chaos… tucked away with all the little things she didn’t want to remember, but she couldn’t think of anything. ”What do you mean?” She questioned, after a moment, her gaze sliding up to meet his, then. ”How… how did he… become Angelus?” She asked, hesitantly, both because she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to know, and because she wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to tell her. Teeth pinched against the inside of her cheek, before she waved off the question. ”Never mind – it’s okay, forget I asked.” She followed, with a half guilty fluster. If she was really sure she needed to know, she would ask Wesley, not poor Doyle, who looked like she felt.
She nodded, then, after he spoke again, trying to leave the awkwardness behind, even though it hung around them like a cloak. They both lived under the same shadow. The same label that they tried so hard to shake. She wondered if they ever would. ”I think that’s what a lotta people want, or most people, even the ones that don’t really realize it.” She confided, as he spoke of the hybrids’ desire for peace. ”I think it’d be nice if everybody just let everybody be, you know? I know, it sounds totally … miss America pageantry like, but … I kinda like the idea of world peace. Everybody just getting along, and letting everybody else just get along.” She admitted, with a smile, as she plated a sandwich that she’d made for him and set it down on the counter next to him, swapping it out for her glass that she brought to her lips. She swallowed once, twice, her nose wrinkling upwards at the burn and she let out a raspy sort of coughing sound after, but that didn’t seem to stop her from taking another swallow. ”Pylea… “ She pushed her glass towards him to top off again.
She turned back towards the island, setting about plating her own sandwich and nestling Wesley’s in a paper towel to keep it moist in the in between. ”It’s another dimension. It’s… the one where I was. I got lost there, read out of a book at the library at college, years and years ago… snatched me up, poof!” She exclaimed, her voice taking on a slightly nervous edge as it always did when she talked about the dreaded portal. ”People were… they called ‘em cows, there,” Fred explained, her shoulders curling in as she set about packing up the food and condiments, trying to keep herself somewhat distracted from what she was saying. ”Slaves. Hungry, dirty slaves, traded for pigs and meal, and livin’ in caves and scribblin’ on walls, and goin’ crazy cows – all except Cordelia, anyways – they made her a Princess, you know.” She informed Doyle, with a flash of a smile as she glanced back towards him. ”All pretty and shiny, with the crown and the throne – and she was supposed to do the whole… um, krumshak with the Groosalag – and boy, let me tell you, he was a pretty one, he was – but then Angel and Wes and Gunn, they all came to rescue Cordelia and they found me too, and Angel, he was supposed to cut off my head cause I’d been a bad cow and run away to live in a cave and eat berries and everything but then he didn’t – and then they brought us all back, short version of that story… and then I stayed in my room here for like… ever, until I didn’t anymore… “ She let out a breath, reaching for her glass and taking another long swallow as she stared down at the amber liquid.
”And I was crazy for a while, but then I was better… and then… I wasn’t.” She said, hesitantly, certain that he would be more than capable enough of figuring out what the cause of that latter bout of insanity was. ”I like to think I’m not so much, anymore, though.” She said, with a faint smile, peeking back up at him. ”Lorne… he’s one of those demons. Pylean. He’s the only good thing I’ve ever known to come outta there. They have the strangest rituals. And dances for everything, and some of these things, that they call drinking songs – they aren’t really, cause they don’t know music there, it’s more just like, these terrible Pylean poems that they sorta just… bellow out at the top of their lungs…”
Allen Doyle - March 12, 2012 11:42 PM (GMT)
Tac0s? Doyle's lips squinted a bit. She was from Texas, by the sound of her voice, perhaps they were big there? Being Irish he couldn't say he was heavily involved in the Mexican cuisine. He did not have any particular feelings over it. Doyle ate food, when the time came, normally he didn't eat at set meal times. He was used to not eating three meals a day and all that. If he tried he'd be full and bloated all the time. He just didn't have the motivation to eat like that. He didn't particularly like food, which wasn't surprising since he was never taught to like it. Did Fred like food? That didn't seem surprising. She was giving off a vibe that she would guzzle pancakes or waffles at a rate of knots and look endearing while she did it. It was interesting to meet a girl who liked food. Though Doyle was sure it was a myth that they didn't, because they just wanted to appear feminine, he guessed, around the males. It was refreshing when you met someone who didn't care. And someone who could and would drink whisky straight and was a girl. Where was she putting it.
Doyle stared at Fred. What? He felt all warm and fuzzy inside at her words. She kept that stupid, silly, annoying coerced video she shot and finally managed to hurt his feelings by calling him 'weasel' and then apologising for it. He could remember doing it like yesterday: he had been nervous, because surprisingly public speaking doesn't really sit well with him. He had a thing about being judged, which was strange because he wanted people to make the negative judgement that he was a street hustler with a 'not bad heart' but not someone to get close to or know. Speaking before kids had never bothered him either but when people claimed to be better than him, they always made him feel inferior and small. That silly little video had been for Angel Investigations. Cordelia had put him up for it under the impression he was more approachable than tall, dark and handsome. It was just so weird. He figured she would have got rid of it pretty much right away. Cordelia was the kind of action girl who did things like right away when she got them in her head. But she kept the little thing, just a couple of minutes with him hedging and he was shaking ever so slightly. "They kept that tape?" Doyle asked, incredulous. "Figured they would have burned it or something. It was pretty terrible," Doyle commented. He felt a bit better for the moment, in knowing they had missed him. Well, Cordelia had missed him, like, properly. That was pretty damn amazing. "That was all Cordelia's idea. She would persuade me to do just about anything," he admitted whilst smiling.
Doyle froze. She didn't know Angel was an idiot....crap. He figured everyone knew Angel had been duped into de-souling himself because he's an over hopeful idiot. Doyle was glad Angel could trust. He really was. A life without it was proving too difficult for the vampire to resist reverting back to his blood sucking ways despite the soul. It was hard to take but it was a truth Doyle had to know. The Powers had to inform him of that when he came back. He had been annoyed then too, though had accepted that his friend had a serious lapse in judgement. It wasn't so easy to accept it now Angelus had tortured him. He didn't think it would be a good idea to tell Fred. It was already interfering with his own ability to heal and he wasn't going to damage her recovery. He was aware she had suffered at the hands of the evil rampaging vampire too, who always went for Angel's friends first before expanding out into the vast, wide world with sadistic grin. "He was cleverly deceived," Doyle half lied, because it was true he was tricked. it was also true that he should not have been. Doyle downed another slot of whisky. It was finally beginning to buzz so nicely.
"People tend not to like half demons," Doyle lightly lamented. Some of the nicest beings were not entirely human. Though, when you were bullied, it was hard to see the best of what you were given. Demons did bully the 'half-breeds' because they saw them as mongrels, dirt-like and scrabbling at the ground with their nails, looking up at them as they spat on their shoes. That was the kind of thing demons thought about hybrids. As one himself, Doyle was was a bit sensitive about people damning his nature. Doyle hummed at the world peace comment. It was ideal but balance...he had learned balance in this world was so utterly sensitive that peace like that could never possibly exist. For such an even balance to become a reality, wouldn't something else have to be thrown into turmoil? The technicals didn't matter. It wasn't in human, or demon nature for that matter, to not fight and war. "This dimension requires a certain balance. Whenever the scales are tipped too far in a certain direction, trouble tends to spill," Doyle replied. "It's not in any living creatures nature anyway. Which is unfortunate. Peace would benefit all,"
OK, so maybe he had a small crush on Fred, because, who wouldn't? She was a lovely girl who was undoubtedly cute, but he was in love with Cordelia and he hadn't forgotten it. She was the only one who lit up his life (despite avoiding her he still cared for her deeply). She had brought some semblance of meaning to his otherwise hapless life. He listened silently, feel compassion for Fred when she told him why she hated 'cow' so much and then the pangs of jealousy set in over this 'Groo thingy' character. If he was so damn pretty why the hell was she interested in the little messed up Irish guy? Well, this Groo person wasn't around. Did that make him second best? How could she not be interested in hot piles of muscles on a plate? Feeling instantly low, Doyle longed for another drink. He was going to have to hunt down another bottle. He had a couple around here anyway. "You make my issues like tiny," he admitted. What was he complaining about? Being half demon. Get a grip. If only it was that easy.
"What's an example then? We should mock those green oppressers,"
Winifred Burkle - March 16, 2012 05:43 PM (GMT)
Fred offered a lopsided smile, a little larger than the other ones she’d thrown his way that night, as he asked about the tape, his own surprise making her a little pleased that she could offer something that he found pleasing, rather than disconcerting. Or stalkerish. ”I thought it was kinda sweet, really. You did a good job, a lot better than I would do, that’s for sure. Lord knows somebody’d put a camera in front of me and I’d just turn into a pile of jibberish,” She confessed. ”I don’t think I was supposed t’know that she had it or anything though, so… She’s suggested the cat bell too, but I can’t help it really. Just… quiet-like by nature, I suppose.” She said, with a sigh. She set aside her glass, swapping it out for the Scooby-sized sandwich she’d made, wrapping her hands around one of the halves and drawing it up, taking a bite of the bread mayonnaise cheese three kinds of meat tomato pickle and lettuce sandwich, a sound something not that dissimilar of a purr escaping from her as she let the first bite wander around and get crunched up into bits along her taste buds.
Her next bite was smaller, slower, as he spoke of Angel, her gaze darting up towards him, and then back down to the plate in front of her. She plunked the sandwich back down on her plate, reaching for a napkin and twisting it between her fingers absent mindedly, her brows furrowed slightly as she weighed his words. ”Deceived?” She asked, a little hesitantly, both cause it wasn’t something that she necessarily wanted to talk about, and even still he was the last person that she should be asking about it… and yet somehow they seemed to keep coming back to it. ”By… who?” she questioned. The idea that someone would want…. That. That someone would have gone out of their way to trick Angel into giving up his soul? Deceiving him into a moment of happiness? What for? Was it someone who had a grudge about Angel, or against them? Or was it someone who… wanted Angelus. Liked… Angelus? She could feel the tempo of her breath increase, the beating of her heart speeding up as her mind escaped down the path of terror without asking her if it could. She found herself reaching for her glass again, it brought to her lips and tipped backwards, the stinging and slightly searing pain of the alcohol enough to make her eyes water a little, but also a rather happy distraction from the fear-ensuing panic of a whirlwind of thoughts that she wasn’t particularly inclined to have.
”It’s a shame, really. I like demons. Well, no – not… demon demons, not like bad, brain eating, sacrificial sort of demons, you know – but there are good demons too, and bad people, it isn’t fair to assume somebody’s bad just cause they might be a rainbow color or have spines or a horn or a tail or whatever, or just cause they don’t – I mean, I don’t like being discriminated against cause I’m not green, so that really wouldn’t be fair to do it the other way around, would it?” She questioned, a soft breath expelled to let her breath catch up with all of her talking, shaking her head at the topic of conversation. ”World peace. It’s good, it’d be fun – you know, no running and screaming, though then we’d all be outta work, but I think somehow we’d be okay with that.” She said, with a slight smile. She raised her glass again, taking a last swallow of the alcohol in her glass, before offering it out hopefully towards Doyle. ”You have good taste. In drinks, I mean, this stuff, it really does just sorta go straight to your head, don’t it?” She questioned.
”I’m tiny. I don’t make things look tiny, I make them look big. Like pygmy ants. Big for ants, little for people,” She offered, her head lolling slightly to the side as she weighed her words, trying to determine exactly what it was that she’d said before giving up and glancing back up to him, a giggle escaping at his last words. ”Mocking – mocking is good. Umm, well, there’s the dance of happiness – it has this whole, bellowing thing, there’s this thing that isn’t really a rhyme, um… and then there’s like, this ape-ing thing, where you bounce back and forth from one foot to the other with your arms all slung out, and there is actual hooting involved,” She explained, taking a moment to show a bit of the dance.