“What’s going on?” Angel asked. He pressed a cool cloth into Doyle’s hand and he accepted it wordlessly, draping it over his forehead.
“Told you, I was coming down with the flu,” he muttered, eyes hidden beneath terrycloth.
“You have a cut on your lip,” Angel said mildly. “Was that the flu too?”
“Cut myself shaving.”
It was so ridiculous that Angel had to resist the urge to shake him and had to cross his arms over his chest. “I haven’t shaved for a long time, but even I know you don’t generally shave your lips.”
“You do if you slip.” Doyle sat up with a sigh, scrubbing his face with the washcloth. “Angel, I promise, I’m just a little under the weather.” At Angel’s skeptical look, he added, “Didn’t I come to you the last time I was having trouble?”
“After I cornered you and forced you to tell me.”
“Yeah, and I’m cornered right now and I’m telling you, it’s all right.”
The powers-that-be are sending Doyle visions of he and Angel sleeping together.
