TITLE: ANOTHER HERO: Season Three

SUMMARY: A Doyle-centric retelling of the third season of Angel. This is part of my Another Hero series, which begins with an alternate version of "Hero," and is followed by Another Hero: Seasons One and Two. It is strongly recommended that you read the series in order.

A/N: Here it is, guys! The beginning of a new season. I'm a little more nervous about posting this one than I have in the past, because I haven't actually finished the entire season yet. Normally, I like to be done (or almost done) before I start posting, but I've been so busy lately that I feel like I need some motivation to get this season done! Nothing like lighting a fire under my bum to serve as motivation, right? Anyway, I vow that I will finish this, as I finish all my stories, so you have no reason to worry. I just can't guarantee the pace of my new chapters will be quite as rapid as it's been in the past. I will certainly do my best, though!

As with the previous seasons, chapters are labeled by the corresponding episode titles. Season three, like season two before it, is heavily serialized and each chapter/episode connects to the next in terms of plot and character development, therefore, skipping episodes is not advisable.

Really hope you enjoy this next part of the journey!

1. Heartthrob, Part I

Cordelia stood in the center of the dismally lit, concrete basement and took a wild swing at the spikey demon standing two feet in front of her. Her spry opponent easily dodged her punch, and then danced forward, back into her space, grinning widely. "That was a good one—ya almost got me that time."

She dropped her fists and blew at the stray hairs that had escaped from her short ponytail. "If by 'almost' you mean 'not even close.'" She grumbled. "You can tell by the fact that my knuckles don't look like they've been through a cheese-grater… can we just skip ahead to the weapons already?"

Doyle chuckled as he morphed from his demon visage into his more affable human face, featuring those twinkling eyes of his, which still managed to look bright even in the dull fluorescent light of the Hyperion's basement-turned-training room. "I know you're real eager to be combat-ready, Princess. But you've gotta learn the basics before ya can move on to the hard stuff. Besides I've seen what you've done with that axe, and I'm not looking to require stitches after these training sessions o' ours."

"Ooooh, lemme try without the spikes this time." She urged excitedly, lifting her fists once again and winding them up for a blow. "I bet I could hit you."

His expression told her that he didn't disagree and he held up his hands in defense. "Hey, what's training for you is therapy for me. Doctor's orders, remember?" He tapped his index finger against his right temple, reminding her how crucial the demon-therapy was for his brain activity.

Cordelia let out a sharp guffaw of objection, not remotely impressed with his flimsy argument. "Here we go again… You're the one who insists it's only for fighting. There are so many other things you could do in demon face, Doyle. Some, of which, I've begged you to do. Now, unless you'd like me to go through that entire list, I think you should stop stalling and lemme take a swing!"

"Okay, okay, I'll fight without the spikes, but ah... why don't we move away from the hitting for now? It's making ya a little too bloodthirsty for my liking." He hedged, carefully keeping his human-faced distance as he circled the mats to stand behind her. Her body language changed as she accepted his new suggestion and he took it as a sign to move closer—so close that Cordelia could feel his breath hitting the sensitive skin on the back of her exposed neck. Doyle draped his arms around her body, pinning her arms securely to her sides. "Now… if some beastie gets the jump on ya, you'll need to know how to turn the tables."

"What do you suggest—should I flip you over or something slayer-esque like that?" She asked, trying, and failing, to do anything of the sort, since she couldn't even move her arms, much less anything else. "Okay, no-go on the slayer-moves. Maybe if I wriggle…?"

She squirmed a bit within his grasp, causing friction between them, but not finding herself any freer than she'd first started. Behind her, Doyle cleared his throat.

"I think ya should stop with the wriggling." He suggested, his voice becoming audibly deeper. He repositioned his hands, making it even more pointless for her to struggle. As his fingers brushed against some of the more sensitive parts of her anatomy, Cordelia found herself inhaling sharply.

"Um, nice try, buddy, but I don't think a demon's gonna put its hands there." She protested, trying to focus on the life-saving training rather than her rapidly accelerating pulse and spike in room temperature.

"I beg to differ, darlin'." Doyle said with a suggestive chuckle. "I have it on good authority that a demon would put its hands there—seeing how I am one."

"Whatever." She sniffed, trying to sound breezy, although she felt anything but. "Let's just get on with it—what should I do to get out of the clutches of my pervy demon attacker, huh?"

Doyle shifted again, so his mouth was very close to her ear as he calmly gave his instructions. "Ya don't have the physical strength to overtake me, but ya can use my own strength against me." He abruptly let go of her and stepped back a few paces and she instantly missed the feeling of his arms around her—the drawback of training with Doyle was that he made her feel the opposite things she should feel. She should be fighting off her pretend-attacker, and instead, she was wishing he'd hold her that much closer. Maybe she should start picking fights with him before their training sessions…

Then again, fighting sometimes made her want him all the more.

"Let's try that again, yeah?" He suggested, his voice floating to her ears from somewhere behind her. "Only this time, instead of standing there all rigid-like, get some leverage, crouch forward and let me overdo it. The moment I'm off balance, get a jab in with your elbow."

"I can do that." She agreed, signaling for him to begin the maneuver. A long moment went by and she still stood there, crouching somewhat unnaturally, waiting for him to attack. She reverted to her original casual posture, shoulders slumping with annoyance. "Any day n—"

Just as she started complaining, he lurched forward, once again grabbing her from behind as a would-be attacker might attempt to do. She did her best to get back into position, crouching the way he'd recommended, but instead of executing a defensive jab, she found herself off-balance and they both went crashing to the floor in a heap, with him landing solidly on top. Her head bounced off the mat—the only thing keeping Cordelia from being injured, was the soft padding beneath her as well as Doyle mostly catching himself, preventing their heads from bumping together.

"Not exactly what I had in mind." He said, his face hovering inches above hers as he used his arms to brace himself in an upward push-up position. They were both breathing heavily from the exertion.

"But, look, I got you on the ground." She joked from underneath him. "It's a pretty good start."

"We may need to work on your technique, darlin'." He said good-naturedly, holding his position. "The goal is to teach ya how to crack a demon's skull open, not your own."

"Is that right?" She panted up at him, noting that the energy had continued to shift into heated territory, as oft was the case when they were in close quarters. His weight against her body increased slightly as he let some of the tension out of his biceps. "Pretty sure your goal was to cop a feel."

"I might have more than one goal." He amended with a roguish grin, as his hands slid into position over her wrists, pinning her to the mat below him. Clearly, he planned to take advantage of his upper-hand. "One of 'em's easier to accomplish than the other."

"That's what you think." She demured, faux-denying his advances with her mouth, even as her body fully accepted them. She used her legs to lock him in place, even as she feebly struggled against his grasp.

Meanwhile, he leaned down so that his lips were only a micrometer from her own—teasing her. He was really good at teasing, which was perhaps, why they were such a perfect match. Pushing each other's buttons was a mutual favorite pastime and they were equally skilled in that department.

"What's say we get ya outta these workout clothes?" He suggested in a throaty whisper.

"Less talking, more kissing." She demanded, capturing his lips, effectively putting an end to their training session. He kissed her back feverishly, and willingly relinquished control, allowing her to roll him over onto his back and climb on top as pieces of clothing were swiftly removed and tossed aside.

Maybe next time she'd learn something new. Today she'd just stick to practicing the moves she already knew by heart.

Wesley stood at the front counter in the Hyperion lobby, sipping from his coffee mug as he flipped through a fascinating article on Wraither demons in the American Journal of Demonology. Reversing back to the front page, he was unsurprised to find that it had been written by none other than Harriet Doyle. She was an extremely intelligent, well-written woman, and had exceptional knowledge of demon culture and habitats. Wesley could hardly remember reading a single article she'd written that didn't thoroughly impress him. And he'd read a lot of her articles.

No, it wasn't at all surprising that Wesley would be fascinated with her work. What he did, however, still have trouble reconciling, was the fact that this rather exceptional demon scholar had once been married to his somewhat less scholarly half-demon coworker, who up until very recently, had seemed to loathe everything about being a demon. Harriet hardly seemed his type.

In fact, in Wesley's opinion, the former Mrs. Doyle seemed much more his own type of woman than Doyle's. The type of woman who would enjoy perusing through ancient demonic texts on a quiet Sunday morning or discussing the results of a demon autopsy over dinner. There weren't many other individuals, female or otherwise, who found these subjects nearly as scintillating as Wesley, but Harriet Doyle was apparently one of them. The heart did work in mysterious ways… After all, Wesley had technically—and disastrously—dated Cordelia once upon a time.

Amazing that two such diametric opposites, could share such a similar taste in women.

Scanning down the page to read Harriet's bio, Wesley honed in on the final line. She currently lives in Los Angeles with her partner, Michael Tiptin, PhD. Wesley sighed with disappointment. That was probably for the best—getting involved with the ex-lover of a coworker and friend—that could be quite awkward. If Wesley intended to dip his toes back into the dating pool one of these days—and he most certainly did intend to dip—he was better off steering clear of any bizarre love triangle shenanigans. He was much too old for that rubbish.

Not that he had time for a social life, which certainly made entering the dating scene a challenge.

"Those Mullet demons are toast!" Gunn announced as he blew through the front doors of the hotel and sauntered toward the reception counter, tossing his homemade axe onto one of the red couches that adorned the front of the lobby.

"I assume you are referring to the Mu-rite demons we killed yesterday." Wesley corrected, briefly looking up from the article he'd been poring over.

"Yeah, but didn't those fin things kinda look like mullets?" Gunn reasoned, gesturing to the back of his head in illustration. "Anyway. I did some recon, like you asked. No hope of resurrecting what's left of those things. Sludge city."

"Good." Wesley said approvingly, flipping past Harriet's article to see what else the journal contained. "I suspected as much, but you can never be too careful with these demon worshipping cults."

"Sad they don't got nothing better to do than obsess over demons. Sad we don't got nothing better to do either, but at least we get paid for it sometimes." Gunn pounded his fist against the top of the counter in an affirming motion and then moved toward the doorway leading down to the training room. "I was hyped for some action. Think I'll go a few rounds with the punching bag to burn it off."

"I wouldn't go down there just now, if I were you." Wesley commented offhandedly, taking another sip from his coffee mug.

Gunn halted in front of the closed door, confused for a moment and then catching the sound of a muffled moan emanating from the depths of the basement; he rumpled his face in disgust and turned back to his boss with a groan of objection. "For real?" He asked, hitching a thumb toward the door in disbelief. "Ain't any place sacred?"

"Perhaps, I should consider banning fraternization in the workplace." Wesley remarked dryly.

"Doesn't sound like they're fraternizing." Gunn responded. "Sounds like they're—"

"Yes, thank you, Gunn." Wesley interrupted his coworker before he could put words to something Wesley would prefer to only speak about in euphemisms. "In the very least, I should probably increase the cleaning supply budget."

Sauntering back over to the reception counter, Gunn took a little hop and managed to land successfully in a seated position upon the high surface. "Ah, I can't even be mad." He said, waving his hand dismissively. "Jealous maybe. Let's face it, English. It's been a while since either of us got up close and personal with a non-demon-type, know what I'm saying?"

"Doyle is a demon." Wesley reminded Gunn, turning another page in his magazine.

"Yeah, and Cordelia's not." Gunn clarified. "Didn't say I was jealous of her. Sign me up for bitter and alone before I'm desperate enough to start banging a demon."

"You know, you could, dare I say, 'bang' a demon without ever knowing. Doyle isn't the only one who can pass for human. Take Wraithers, for instance…" Wesley's exposition trailed off as he saw the glazed over look in Gunn's eye. Frowning to himself, he closed the journal in front of him and gave Gunn a pointed look.

"Don't stop spouting the useless info on my account." Gunn encouraged with a knowing smirk.

"Yes, well… ahem." Wesley lifted his magazine and shoved it under his arm, lifting his mug off the counter and preparing to disappear into his office, where he could enjoy his 'useless demon info' in peace. "I was simply going to note, that certain demonic species—Brachens, most notably—are really not that dissimilar to humans. On a biological level, you'd hardly know the difference."

"Aside from the face full of spikes and the ability to break their necks without dying." Gunn replied. "I know D looks human most of the time, but when he goes into combat mode he's like a super-porcupine on steroids."

"Yes, I suppose Doyle is a much more formidable combatant now that he readily uses his demon visage on the battlefield." Wesley agreed. "It has been a great benefit to us this summer with Angel away."

"You can say that again."

It was Cordelia's voice that permeated their conversation bubble, causing both Wesley and Gunn to snap their heads in her direction. She stood in the doorway of the basement, using a towel to mop the sweat from her upper chest and neck. "Now if only he'd allow me to benefit by using that demon in the bedroom—I think that would really prove how much he's grown as a half-person, don't you think?"

As she stepped out of the doorway, Doyle appeared in her wake, wearing a rather unenthusiastic expression. He usually found her blunt remarks humorous, but clearly this wasn't an aspect of their sex life he wished to share with the group.

"Basement's all yours, Gunn!" She chirped, as she skipped off toward the main staircase, presumably to shower in one of the many rooms above.

"For the record, I feel I've already grown enough." Doyle griped as he slowly followed in her footsteps. "And I'd appreciate if ya didn't encourage her on that particular point, yeah?"

Wesley and Gunn watched them go and after an awkward beat of silence, Gunn turned to his boss. "You know, maybe you could just put a ban on talking about fraternization in the workplace."

"Done." Wesley agreed with a curt nod.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Doyle and Cordelia stood patiently outside the second floor room currently belonging to Winifred Burkle, their rarely seen hotel guest. From behind the door they could hear some scuffling sounds and a hurried, muffled reply. "Hi, there. I-I'm fine, thanks. Doing real good! Have a nice day."

"We brought tacos." Doyle announced through the wooden surface in front of him. "The crispy kind."

"Extra hot sauce, too." Cordelia added, rattling the numerous plastic packets contained inside the small paper bag in her hand.

Some more scuffling could be heard from inside the room, adding to the mental image of Fred being holed up like some tiny, feral creature, not yet accustomed to the luxuries a first world country could provide.

Mostly because that was exactly what she was.

The door creaked open, and Fred's small face peeped through the crack, her glasses slipping awkwardly down the bridge of her nose as she giggled nervously. "You didn't have to go through so much trouble, your majesties—I would've been fine with minimal hot sauce. Or none. There was no hot sauce in Pylea—or tacos. Or polite conversation of any kind, really—"

"Fred." Doyle replied in a tone he'd once reserved for rambunctious schoolchildren. "What have I told ya 'bout the majesty thing?"

"Not to call you that—of course, silly me. I've written that down a few dozen times, but I'll go write it again for good measure." She squeaked nervously, not opening the door any further than the small crack. Even so, her high level of anxiety poured out into the corridor.

"Sounds like you're gonna run out of wall space real soon." Cordelia remarked, taking the bag of tacos from Doyle and shoving it unceremoniously at the teeny creature behind the door; the smaller bag of extra hot sauce followed. "Can we get you anything else? A refreshing beverage? Or, perhaps, a dry-erase board?"

Fred snorted with nervous laughter as she accepted the bags and immediately halved the space between the door and its frame, intending to shut it entirely as soon as she could dismiss her visitors. "You've already done so much. I won't be troubling you any further, your maj—um, Cordelia. And Doyle. Friends of Angel, the man who saved me from the demons. Um, well, he's a demon, too, I suppose, but not the evil kind—did he happen to mention when he'd be back? Not that I think he'd want to see me; it's just the sort of thing that people might ask when discussing a mutual acquaintance."

"Doyle, you wanna field this question today?" Cordelia wondered, with a disinterested arch of her brow.

Doyle could have recited the lines by heart, considering he said them nearly every day. "Angel needs a little more time, love. But when he gets back, I'm sure he'll come by to see ya." He placed a hand on Cordelia's shoulder, signaling that the two of them should retreat from Fred's doorway. "Enjoy the tacos."

"Okay! Bye!" She squeaked, slamming the door shut before the words were even out of her mouth.

Cordelia exchanged a beleaguered look with Doyle as they both turned away from the closed door and headed down the second floor hallway toward the main staircase that would lead them down into the lobby. "Well, she's not getting any less crazy, is she?" Cordelia commented. "It's been three whole months and that girl is still very much interrupted."

"She spent five years in a hell dimension where they treated her like an animal." Doyle reminded his girlfriend as they approached the grand staircase and began descending side-by-side. "It'll take more than three months of eating tacos to snap her outta this."

"So, what do y'think? Six months of taco-eating?" Cordelia sassed. "How are we supposed to show her how non-scary the outside world is, if she doesn't actually see it?"

"Cable?" Doyle suggested.

"This isn't a joke, Doyle." Cordelia lightly chastised. "Living a life inside a cramped hotel room isn't really living, it's existing. We might as well have left her back in Pylea—at least she used to get some sun."

"It'll be different when Angel gets back." Doyle surmised as they hit the bottom landing and continued across the expansive lobby toward the front reception area. "They really bonded over there in Pylea—she feels safe with him. I'm sure he'll be able to convince her to get out and, y'know, start really living."

"Oh, right, because that's something Angel's always exceled at—getting out and really living." Cordelia snarked. "Not to sound like crazy-pants up there, but when is he coming back? He's been gone the entire summer. And, not for anything, but no matter how much time he spends meditating with a bunch of monks, Buffy will still be—"

"Cordy." Doyle cut her off as he sensed the presence of a vampire in the lobby—a very specific vampire. "He's back."

Angel stepped out of Wesley's office, with his hands shoved in his pockets and a small introductory grin playing across his lips. "Hey, guys." He said easily.

Cordelia bounced excitedly up and down beside Doyle and then launched herself around the reception counter to give Angel a warm embrace. "You're back!" She enthused. "And just in the nick of time—honestly, this place had seriously been lacking in the doom and gloom department with you gone."

"I missed you, too." Angel said with a chuckle, hugging Cordelia back and then stepping out of her grip and into that of his best friend who was right on her heels.

"How was the retreat, man?" Doyle asked jovially, giving Angel an added pat on the back and then stepping back to casually lean his elbows against the front counter. "Musta had your fill o' peace and quiet, yeah?"

"The monks turned out to be demons." Angel deadpanned. "Guess I should've listened to you."

"Vegas." Doyle agreed with a laugh. "Always the cure for what ails ya."

"Assuming what ails you is a wallet full of cash." Cordelia piped up, giving Doyle a begrudging look. "Let's get back to the catching up, shall we? Everything here is pretty much exactly the way you left it, except for the walls in Fred's apartment, which are covered in gibberish."

That statement made the smile on Angel's face fade. "She hasn't really adjusted yet, I take it?"

"Well, that depends on what you mean by adjusted." Cordelia replied. "She seems to have really taken a shine to that room of hers. And she can put away tacos like nobody's business. But, she's not real big on the sunshine, fresh air or mental health."

"Yeah, ah… we were actually just discussing some of our concerns when it comes to our rather reclusive houseguest." Doyle elaborated. "I'm hoping you can go sweet talk the little mouse outta her hole."

"And, maybe establish that the walls down here are not for writing." Cordelia added. "We've been working hard all summer, but that doesn't mean we have money to spare on redecorating."

"I'll be sure to mention it." Angel replied with a faint chuckle as he began to move off in the direction of the staircase.

Cordelia stared after him with a curious frown, waiting until he was well out of supernatural earshot before speaking. "On a brood scale of 1 to 10—five being Angel's normal, every day level of broodiness—I'd say he might be somewhere in the ten and a half zone."

Pushing away from the counter and sauntering toward the half-full coffee pot to inspect the contents, Doyle furrowed his brow with amused skepticism. "We talked to him for five minutes."

"A lot can happen in five minutes, Doyle." Cordelia debated, following in the few footsteps he'd taken and hovering by his side. "You could cook five bags of minute rice, for instance."

"He seemed fine." Doyle assured her, unconcerned by her alarmism.

She glanced over to the now-empty staircase with dismay. "I don't get it—I thought for sure he'd bring the morbid gloom right back with him. I think this only shows how not fine he is."

"Ya have a helluva logic there, darlin'." Doyle said with a chuckle, selecting a mug from the pile and deciding to take his chances with the dark liquid that had been sitting in the pot since earlier that morning—it couldn't be any worse than the sludge he used to drink back when they first started their business.

"Are you saying you disagree with me?" She inquired, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Y'think I'm fool enough to say yes to that question?" Doyle replied easily as he poured. "I've been in this relationship long enough to avoid those kinda obvious traps."

"Buffy's dead." Cordelia reminded Doyle in her very best duh voice. "There's no way Angel's okay. I don't care how many demon monks he got to wail on this summer."

"What if he really is okay?" Doyle countered, as he settled the coffee pot back in to its base. "Would there be something wrong with that?"

"No. Of course not." Cordelia conceded, a little taken aback by the question. "As long as he keeps doing his job, and avoids all forms of perfect happiness, there's no problem at all."

Doyle slammed down his coffee mug sharply, causing the coffee inside to splash out and spill all over the countertop. Cordelia jumped back, startled by his abrupt movement, but she knew by now that it wasn't a bout of clumsiness or a bad temperament that had caused Doyle's sudden action. She watched as his skin turned a deep shade of green and his face became peppered with thick midnight blue quills; he braced his demon hands against the side of the counter as a doozy of a vision hit him full force.

"Guys! Incoming!" Cordelia called to Wesley and Gunn who were in Wesley's office.

Instead of shouting or crying as he sometimes had in the past, Doyle made little more than a few grunting noises nowadays. His demon form took the brunt of the vision, allowing him to stay on his own two feet with minimal assistance from others. But despite the increased balance, endurance and strength, Cordelia knew the visions still caused him a great deal of pain on the inside. Therefore, she reached out to brace his upper arm, silently offering her support.

Their nearby co-workers were quick to assemble at Cordelia's side even before Doyle had regained control of himself and shook off his demon visage. "Wilson College." He gasped, blinking himself back to the physical reality in front of his eyes. "Bonner Hall. Room 918. Bunch o' vamps about to crash a party and have their fill o' the guests."

"Let's move out." Wesley declared, grabbing a set of keys off a hook on the wall, barking out instructions to his colleagues, which were quickly followed. "Gunn, the weapons. Cordelia, the first aid kit. I'll bring the car around—Doyle, let Angel know we have a new case. I think it best that he get right back in the saddle, wouldn't you agree?"

"Can't picture Angel on a horse." Doyle replied, tilting his head to the side. "Okay, now I can… and, gotta say, it works way better than tights and a cape." Shaking off the final remnants of his vision-clouded head, Doyle moved toward the staircase to inform Angel of his latest vision and find out if the vampire was game to stop it.