Doyle let her have the bottle first and when she was finished pouring herself a glass, he made a grab for the alcohol and let it pour out into his, which had already seen its fair share of whiskey. He gulped the contents of the glass down in one long gulp, barely noticing the burn that it left behind. After all the drinks that he’d consumed, he was used to not flinching or grimacing at the taste.
Imaging Angel tucking a little girl into bed was difficult. He was just so… Angel. He was human now, living, breathing, walking out during the day without bursting into flames human, and that was hard to comprehend too. “The ‘after that’ part sounds about right. Brings back memories.” His glass was set back on the table and it hit with an idle bang. He was ready to fill it back up when he heard what she had to say next.
She was upset. He could see that. He could sense it. She should have been upset. Her friend was dead and if that wasn’t a cause for feeling like crap, then he didn’t know what was. Doyle tilted across the table, his arms on the surface. “Hey, none of that now. It’s not you’re fault. It’s not Angel’s fault. People die. It happens every day, and if somebody blamed themselves for every one of those deaths, we would have a whole lotta people feelin’ guilty. You can't save everybody, Princess.”