DISCLAIMER: I own none of the characters!
SPOILERS: None, really
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Follows on from 'Forever'. Please contact me if you wish to archive.
It was a stormy night in Los Angeles. The summer sun had set hours earlier as black clouds filled the sky. The sky had broken around seven-ish, providing the city with a cooling downpour. Although the air was still humid, it was a welcome break from the suffocating humidity and heat of the day. All over the city, people were starting to come alive.
As Cordelia Chase slung her bag over her shoulder and retrieved her mini umbrella from a cluttered desk drawer, ready to leave the safe, comfortable atmosphere of the Angel Investigations office, the elevator from the basement apartment whirred to life. Wires groaned and electricity crackled as the old shaft was lifted from the depths of the office block. The cage door opened, and the company's namesake entered the office, a pile of books under his arm.
"Hey, Cord," he said, dropping the books on top of the filing cabinet. He turned to the window, squinting through the drops of rain on the glass to see into the night. "You off home?" He turned back to the young brunette, hands in pockets.
"Yep," she replied, buttoning her jacket. "Looks like evil took the night off."
Angel nodded. "And Doyle?"
Cordelia smiled. "Him, too. Mentioned something about somebody he had to meet somewhere." She looked up from straightening her skirt. "I wasn't really paying attention."
Angel nodded. "And if anything happens…?"
"I'll call you." She turned to leave. "Goodnight, Angel," she called as she exited.
"Goodnight, Cordy," Angel replied, softly. But she was already gone. Leaving him stood in an empty office with nothing to do.
Rounding the corner just down the street from where the Angel Investigations office was situated, Cordelia was careful not to stand in any puddles. All she needed was to ruin a new pair of shoes. However inexpensive they may have been. Although Doyle and Angel had warned her about taking shortcuts, she couldn't resist turning into the dark alley that would cut her journey in half. The stench of food waste from the Mexican restaurant on the street stung her nostrils, and she quickened her pace. Steam rose from the sewers, and she suddenly felt as though she were in a cheesy horror movie.
Avoiding a puddle of what smelled like mouldy taco sauce, she jumped at the sound of something collapsing behind her. Turning, she became aware of something in the alley behind her. Quickly she dug into her purse to find the can of spray Mace that should have been there. Only it wasn't.
Her pace quickening to a run, Cordelia's heart pounded as the end of the alley came in sight. If she could make it onto the street, into the light, maybe she could lose the stranger that had quickened its pace to match hers.
Suddenly, the stranger was upon her. Screaming, Cordelia turned to try and identify what kind of demon it was. But it was no demon. It was a man. A man about six feet tall, with what would have been blond hair, had it not been sopping wet. Frightened, Cordy dropped her umbrella. Great, she thought. I could have used that as a weapon.
The man had her arm in a vice-like grip, and Cordelia struggled to be released. This made the man hold tighter.
"Stop moving, bitch," the man said in a voice that irritated Cordy more than fingernails and a chalkboard. He brought his face close to hers, and her nostrils stung with stale garlic. Obviously not a vampire, she thought hysterically.
Frightened, she stopped moving. Tears flooded her eyes as her hair clung to her scalp and face. "What…What do you want?" she managed, swallowing hard.
The man smiled. Half his teeth were missing, and the others weren't too far behind them. "You're gonna do what I say," the man said, pushing her to the ground. He knelt down beside her, hitching her skirt up to her waist. "You're gonna do what I say. And you ain't gonna scream."
Angel sat at Cordelia's desk, battering the keyboard before him. He cursed as Lara Croft sailed over the edge of a cliff and into the mouths of a dozen or more tigers.
"Like this resembles reality," he grumbled, opening up the saved game. Beside him, the phone rang, sending the animated Tomb Raider into suspended action as he hit pause.
"Angel Investigations," he said into the receiver. "We help the helpless…" No, that wasn't right. "The hopeless…" That didn't sound quite right either. "Oh, what can I do for you?" he asked, resignedly.
"Angel? It's me," an Irish lilt replied. Doyle. "Is Cordy still there?" His voice was filled with worry and concern.
Angel glanced at his watch. "No. She left an hour ago. Perhaps she decided to shelter until the rain stopped," he replied. He heard the front door click open, and looked up.
"Maybe. But I thought she'd ring me on my cell."
Angel's eyes grew wide. Cordelia stood before him, battered, wet, and near hysterical. "Doyle, she just walked in. I think you need to get here as soon as you can." He put the phone down on the Irish halfling and rushed to Cordelia's side.
"Cordy, what happened?" he said softly as he led her to the sofa. He grabbed a throw from the back and wrapped it around his best friend's shoulders.
Shivering, Cordelia swallowed hard, trying to fight back the tears. "I was taking a short cut and this man followed me and he grabbed me and he…he forced me to the ground and… Oh, God, Angel. I'm so sorry," she leaned on to him, sobbing again.
"It's okay," he whispered softly. "It's okay now."
Filled with dread and fear, Doyle arrived at the Angel Investigations office fifteen minutes after he had spoken with Angel. Casting a few dollar bills at the taxi driver, he raced into the ground floor office to find Cordelia sobbing in the arms of Angel. He looked quizzically at his boss, who stood.
"You should sit with her," he said sombrely. "I'll call the police."
Doyle slipped into the seat beside his fiancé, who immediately wrapped her arms tightly around him. "
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I tried to stop him, but I…I couldn't."
Doyle didn't understand. But when Cordelia looked into his eyes, her own a reflection of what had happened to her, he understood. "Oh, God," he whispered, taking Cordy into a tight embrace. He could hear Angel on the phone to the police. "Oh, God."
Doyle hated hospitals. Ever since the death of his uncle when he was a small child, Doyle had tried to avoid them. But this situation was worse. The woman he loved was alone while some stranger ran tests, took notes, and made observations.
Sitting down on one of the faux leather seats, Doyle put his head in his hands. Beside him, Angel stared at the same spot of damp on the ceiling he had been staring at for the past forty-five minutes. On the opposite side of the corridor, guarding the door that Cordy had been taken through, LAPD detective, Kate Lockley, leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Angel.
"What's taking so long?" Doyle asked, anger rising in his voice. "I should be with her."
Kate moved away from the wall. "It's standard procedure in rape -cases," she replied, almost matter-of-factly. To her, this was simply another case. Her job.
Doyle looked up at her, his eyes narrow with anger. Before he could say anything, the door to Cordelia's room opened, and a gentle looking female doctor entered the corridor.
"Mr. Doyle? She's asking for you." She held open the door, closing it carefully when Doyle left the corridor. The woman - Dr. Hawkins - turned to face Kate. "I'll get the results faxed to you asap," she said softly. If Angel had been any other person he might not have heard. But he wasn't, and he did.
When Dr. Hawkins left, Kate turned to him. "The chances of finding him are pretty slim," she informed him. "But I'll get a team together and we'll look at the evidence. I'll need to get another statement from Cordelia." She pulled a notebook out of her jacket.
"In the morning." It wasn't open to debate. Angel stared at the floor.
"It's better that I get it tonight. She may forget some -."
"In the morning," Angel interjected, staring her in the eye. "She's been through enough tonight already, don't you think? So if you don't mind…" He stood, silently dismissing the detective.
Kate was prepared to argue, but she saw the determination in Angel's eyes, and didn't bother. Instead, she turned on her heels and left. As an afterthought, she paused, turning. "I'm going to post a couple of officers outside her room, just in case." Then, without waiting for a reply, she continued down the corridor.
Angel looked at his watch. It would be dawn soon. He should be returning to his apartment. Standing, he dug for change in his pocket and headed to the payphone down the hall. He lifted the receiver, fed the coins and dialled the number. A sleepy voice answered after the fourth ring.
"Wesley Wyndham-Price," the voice said, filled with sleep.
"It's me," Angel said, looking around the hallway. He could see Dr. Hawkins talking to a uniformed police officer. He turned away as she pointed in his direction, the direction of Cordelia's room.
"Angel?" he asked, suddenly alert. "What is it?"
Angel took a deep, unneeded breath. "It's Cordy. She's in the hospital."
There was a gasp from the other end. "What happened? What can I do?"
"Doyle's down here, but he needs to get some rest. Can you get down here? I'm at the woman's ward, room 10. I'll meet you here."
"But Angel," the Englishman protested. "It's almost dawn."
"Don't worry about me. Just get over here." He hung up the phone and headed towards room 10.
As Cordelia slept, the sedatives coursing through her veins, Doyle held onto her hand, an anchor in reality. He turned slightly as the door opened, and Angel entered.
"They gave her sedatives to calm her," he explained. "Dr. Hawkins wants to keep her in overnight."
Angel nodded. "It's for the best." He moved to Cordelia's side, opposite Doyle. "I called Wesley. He's going to come down and take over," he explained, taking his best friends other hand. It felt warm against his own, unnaturally cold ones.
"I want to stay with her," Doyle replied. "I want to keep her safe."
Angel let go of Cordy's hand and moved to the foot of the bed. "Doyle, you need to get some rest, or at least a shower. And Cordy'll be wanting some clothes in the morning when she leaves." He gestured to the bag of tattered clothes on a chair under the window.
Doyle sighed. "I guess so," he replied, resignedly. "But I want to know as soon as she wakes up."
Angel nodded. "Of course."
There was a gentle tap at the door, and Angel and Doyle turned as it opened. A dishevelled Wesley Wyndham-Price stood before them, panting.
"I got here as quick as I could," he explained. He gestured to the sleeping Cordy. "How is she?"
"They gave her sedatives, she should be asleep for hours," Doyle reported, collecting his jacket from the back of the chair he had been sat in. He turned to leave, followed by Angel. As he passed Wesley, he placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Thanks, man," he said softly.
Wesley smiled, and watched as the two men left. Then he settled himself into the chair Doyle had vacated, and began his vigil.
In her mind, Cordelia was back in the dark alley. The sound of the rain seemed to be magnified as it hit the asphalt. The smell of rotting garbage was heady, worse than before. She felt herself move in slow motion, felt a hand grip her arm. She was falling…
Then she was on the floor, facing a blond, middle-aged man. Stubble outlined his features, defining his thinness. She tried to bat him off of her, pushed and shoved. But it was no use.
He was calling her name - funny, she didn't remember giving it him. Over and over, like a mantra. As his hand came down over her mouth, she managed one last scream…
…And woke up in the arms of Wesley Wyndham-Price. Sobbing, she buried her face in his soft linen shirt. He stroked her hair, soothing her with his touch. She lifted her head and looked into his eyes.
"Oh, God, Wesley. He was here. I could feel him touching me." She clung to the sleeves of her friends shirt.
"It's okay, Cordy. There's no-one here but you and me." He gently set her back down on the pillows. "Rest. Doyle will be back soon."
Cordelia placed a hand on her forehead, and Wesley noticed that she was sweating. "It felt so real," she whispered. She looked up as the door of her room opened, and Doyle entered, carrying a large duffel bag. Noticing that she was awake, he dropped the bag and dashed to her side, wrapping his arms around her.
"Oh, Delia," he whispered.
"I'm okay," she assured him. "Just a bad dream." She gestured to the bag. "What's in there?"
Remembering the bag, Doyle turned and pulled it towards him. "I got you a few clothes," he replied, placing the bag gently on the bed. '
She opened it, raising an eyebrow at the contents. There had to be at least three pairs of pants, four sweaters, and almost ten tees, along with a half-dozen pairs of shoes.
Doyle smiled sheepishly. "I wasn't sure what you'd want, so Dennis and me narrowed it down to this."
"Thank you." She turned to look at the clock beside her bed - it was approaching noon. "I'll be glad to get out of here," she said, wearily.
The three glanced up as the door opened. A flushed Dr. Hawkins entered, smoothing her hair.
"I just had to fight to get past the security guarding this room," she said, smiling. "How are you feeling today?" She shoved her hands into her uniform white jacket and approached the bed.
Cordelia bowed her head. "Good," she replied, lifting her head to look the doctor in the eye. "I'd like to go home."
The kindly woman nodded. "I don't see why that should be a problem," she replied. "I just need you to fill in a couple of forms." She leaned closer to Cordelia, almost conspiratorially. "I'm not sure about Heckle and Jeckle outside, though. They've been stood there most of the night. That detective was adamant that they watch over you until you left." She gestured at Wesley and Doyle. "But with friends like these, who needs security?" She smiled, then turned to left.
Cordelia slowly lifted her feet out from beneath the sheets and placed them on the cold lino floor.
Wesley, seeing that the brunette was eager to leave, blushed, and turned to the door. "Yes. Well. I'll be outside if I'm needed." He dashed out of the room quickly, leaving Doyle and Cordelia smiling after him.
Grimacing, Cordelia stood. Doyle busied himself by pulling clothes out of the bag and trying to match them to make an outfit. So far he wasn't doing too good. Giving up, he turned to face Cordelia…
…And stopped in his tracks at the sight before him.
Cordelia stood before him, hospital gown round her ankles. He could see the bruise marks on her midriff, so much like hand prints, and the cuts and grazes around her arms, legs and chest. She had pulled her hair back, exposing a large gash on the side of her cheek.
Noticing Doyle's expression, Cordelia frowned and turned to face the mirror on the back of the door. What she saw made her cry.
Doyle rushed to her side, taking her in his arms and turning her away from her reflection. "It's okay, Delia," he soothed. "They'll heal. Don't cry." He didn't really know what to say, what to do. Of course the external batterings would heal. But what about the internal ones? The ones that would haunt her for eternity?
Guiding her to the bed, Doyle grabbed a pair of sweat pants and a sweater, helping her to slip them on. She sat on the bed while he laced her sneakers and brushed her hair, putting it into a loose ponytail. When they were finished, he packed up the remainder of the clothes, and led her to the door.
Out in the reception area, Wesley sat with the two officers.
"And did she mention anything else about the attack last night?" one asked. His hair was thinning, and the years of stress and donuts were beginning to show around his face and stomach.
"What? No," Wesley replied distractedly, his eyes on room 10. He watched as the door opened and Cordelia exited, followed closely by Doyle.
The other officer, slightly younger than the first, stood and made his way towards the couple. Wesley stood, intending on stopping him in his tracks.
"Good morning," the officer said. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your attack last night."
Doyle saw Cordelia tense, and led her carefully past the officer. "Come on, love."
But the officer followed. "Did the man who attacked you have any distinguishing features?" he asked, reading from a carefully plotted script. "What about an accent? Like, was he from the south or something?"
"Oh, dear God," Doyle groaned in Cordelia's ear. Out loud, he said, "I can see detective Lockley has her finest on this case. Why don't you boys go back to eating donuts and watching 'Cops', or whatever it is you do. She answered all these last night."
They had reached the reception desk, and Cordelia began signing the clipboard full of forms. They could hear the squeak of rubber shoes approaching, and shortly after, Dr. Hawkins approached the group.
"Is everything okay here?" she asked, addressing Cordelia, Doyle and Wesley.
"Everythings fine, Ma'am," the younger officer replied, shifting his weight. "Just asking Miss…" he stopped to consult his note book. Doyle rolled his eyes.
"Come on, Delia."
Dr. Hawkins narrowed her eyes. "I suggest you get yourself out of here before I have you thrown out," she said, folding her arms. "Go."
The four watched as the two officers left, then the doctor turned to Cordelia, handing her a business card. "If you ever want to talk, you can call me, or come down. It doesn't matter whether it's day or night, you just let me know." Next she handed her a vial of sleeping tablets. "And if you have any problems sleeping, one of these should do the trick." She smiled, a warm, motherly smile. "Take care, Cordelia."
"Thanks," Cordelia smiled. Then she let herself be led away by Doyle and Wesley.
In the parking lot, Cordelia allowed herself to be seated in the passenger side of Angel's car, lifting her arms slightly as Doyle buckled her in, testing the belt as if he were scared that the pressure would cause her to collapse. Wesley hopped into the back, settling the duffle bag on his lap. Doyle climbed in the driver's side, and started the car.
As they headed back to Cordelia's apartment, Doyle turned to face his fiancé. She looked so frail, as if she might break if he mishandled her. "Cordy, are you hungry?" he asked, concerned.
"No, I'm fine," she replied, turning to face him. She saw the look of concern on his face, and smiled gently. "I guess I could use a little something, though. Keep my strength up."
Doyle smiled, obviously pleased. "Good. That's good. We'll eat."
Half an hour later, Doyle pulled into the parking lot of a small, oceanside diner. He helped Cordelia out of the car, taking her hand as he led her to the entrance. Wesley followed, taking in the salty air.
At the foyer, an aging man welcomed them and led them towards a booth in the corner that looked out onto the harbour beyond. Cordelia climbed in beside the large picture window, taking in the view. She wrapped her arms around herself as Doyle and Wesley joined her.
Wesley scooted across the booth to face Cordelia. "How are you feeling?" he asked as a young waitress set down three glasses of water.
"A little sore," she replied. "And, a little hungry, I guess." She turned to Doyle. How had he suddenly turned so old-looking? He looked as though he had aged overnight. She realised it was probably worry, but it frightened her. "I can't stop thinking about what happened. I play it over and over in my head, thinking of the 'what ifs'. What if I had gone home earlier. What if I had asked Angel to drive me instead of walking. What if I had just fought a little harder." A tear slid down her face, falling into the gash on her cheek.
Doyle wrapped her into a hug. "Don't, Delia. Please." Wesley handed him some napkins from the dispenser, and he gently wiped away the tears.
Cordelia sighed, smiled weakly, and picked up the menu. "Let's see," she said with false cheeriness. "Maybe I'll just have some soup. Perhaps some clam chowder."
Doyle watched his princess. Inside he couldn't stand himself. If he had been there, he could have walked her home, instead of out planning their honeymoon. It all seemed irrelevant now. Would she still want to get married? Did she still love him? As he watched Cordelia tuck into her chowder, he wondered if she still wanted to be around him.
Angel couldn't sleep. He wandered around Cordelia's apartment, moving magazines and pouring glass upon glass of water that he wasn't going to drink. Once, he turned on the television. Oprah Winfrey was talking to some new Hollywood star, cheery chatter emitting from the box. Dennis hovered around him: he could tell by the way the air shifted occasionally.
He tried to drink from the carton of blood that Cordelia had bought for him, but he couldn't. He wanted to go out, search for the man who had taken from her so cruelly, but the sun was still shining high in the midday sky. So he set about straightening the already immaculate apartment, ready for its occupants return.
Just after three that afternoon, Angel heard the door open, and Cordelia and Doyle entered. The latter set his fiancé's bag down onto the floor, and led her into the lounge. He smiled grimly at the vampire as Cordelia sat down heavily on the sofa.
"We went for a drive," he explained. "Cordelia wanted some air. Wesley says he'll get in touch later on this evening."
He moved into the kitchen, gesturing for Angel to follow. "I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. I can't tell her I know how she feels, because I don't." He sighed, leaning against the refrigerator. He glanced at Cordelia, who was absentmindedly flicking through a magazine. "She blames herself for what happened."
Angel shifted his weight, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You told her she shouldn't, though." He noticed Doyle's vacant look. "Doyle, you did tell her it wasn't her fault, didn't you?" His voice rose with anger.
Doyle shrugged. "I couldn't. I wanted to, but I couldn't. She should have been more careful. I've told her about taking short cuts. I've told her to ask you for a lift if she needs one, but she didn't. She tries to be too independent instead of letting people help her."
Angel closed the gap between himself and Doyle. "She is your fiance, Doyle. You are supposed to support her, not blame her for another persons actions. I can't believe you."
"Hey, man, I don't feel good feeling this way. I know I shouldn't blame her, and I don't, really. I simply think she could have helped herself, stopped this from happening."
"Whilst we're at it, we could bring up the subject of where you were. You left early, without telling me." Angel was seething, trying hard not to blame the halfling before him, but finding it irresistibly not to blame someone other than Cordelia for what happened. He knew that, in reality, they should be blaming the guy that had attacked her. But he wasn't thinking rationally. Neither was Doyle.
Doyle leaned forward, his face inches from Angel's. "You want to know where I was the other night?" he asked, stepping even closer. "I was arranging a honeymoon for my fiancé. I was booking us into a hotel in Dublin. I was going to take her to a beautiful city, feed her fine food and wine, let her know how much she meant to me." He stopped, studying Angel's eyes. But Angel wasn't looking at him. He was looking past him. At Cordelia.
"Doyle?" she whispered. "What's going on?" Her voice was quiet, like that of a frightened child. "Why are you two arguing?"
Doyle turned around, taking Cordelia in his arms. "Nothing, love. Angel just wanted to know where me and you went today." He turned to look Angel in the eyes. Then he let go of Cordelia and led her into the bedroom. Angel sighed, and moved into the dining room.
Shutting the bedroom door softly behind them, Doyle led Cordelia to her bed, sitting her down between the comfortable sheets and pillows. She leaned back into the pillows, sighing and closing her eyes. Doyle sat down next to her, taking her hands in his.
"Doyle, I want to ask you something," she asked, keeping her eyes closed.
"Anything, princess." He opened his eyes and turned to look at her.
Cordelia breathed in deeply. "I want you to move in with me."
Doyle sat still for a moment, processing the question. When he didn't reply immediately, Cordelia turned to look at him. "Doyle?"
Shaking himself from his reverie, Doyle smiled. "I'd be thrilled to."
Cordelia smiled. "I'd feel better having you near. I have Dennis, but it's not as good as having a real, breathing, living, handsome man with me." She leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. "I want to try and get over this whole ordeal as quickly as possible." Her voice broke slightly, and she rubbed at her eyes. Then she looked up at Doyle. "I heard you and Angel talking. Do you really blame me for what happened?"
Doyle swallowed hard. What could he say? He didn't blame her, as such, he just thought she was a little more sensible. He felt a little disappointed more than anything. He shook his head. "No, I don't blame you, princess. I just wish that you could have phoned me and I would have come and met you. But I would never blame you." He looked down at his hands. "I guess I partly blamed myself for not telling you where I was going and how to get in touch with me."
Cordelia frowned. "Where were you, anyway?" she asked, slightly suspicious.
Doyle sighed, leaning forward so he could reach into the back pocket of his brown corduroy jeans, pulling out an envelope. "I was going to wait until we were married. But, with the surcumstances being as they are, here."
Cordelia smiled, intrigued. "What's this?" she asked, fingering the envelope.
"Open it," Doyle replied, warm inside from Cordelia's smile.
She smiled, ripping open the envelope. She pulled out the air tickets, gasping. "Oh, Doyle," she exclaimed. "Thank you so much!" She reached forward and grabbed her fiancé in a tight hug.
"I'm sorry I didn't discuss it with you beforehand. I wanted to surprise you so much, to make you happy."
Cordelia swiped at the tears that had begun to fall. "I love you so much," she said. "And I still want us to be together. I can't forget what happened last night. I won't. But I can't stand still. I have a life to get on with. A life with you."
The winter had soon set in, and the air had become unusually cold. Cordelia shivered as she set the last of Doyle's boxes onto the living room floor. Doyle entered a few minutes later carrying a suitcase and a large leopard skin lamp shade. Cordelia's eyes grew at the sight of the shade.
"No way," she said sternly. "That thing is not coming into my house. You can leave it outside. With any luck someone will take it to the petting zoo."
Doyle pretended to look hurt. "What do you mean? This is a classic. I got this for a buck at a garage sale about six years ago."
Cordelia gestured around the room. "Do you really think that goes with this?" she asked.
Doyle opened the door and put the lamp shade outside. "It was getting a little tattered anyway." He closed the door, took off his shoes and flopped down on the sofa besides Cordelia. "So, what are your plans for the evening?" he asked, picking up a copy of 'Cosmopolitan' from the coffee table and flicking through it.
Cordelia sighed. "Well, I thought we could rent a movie…"
"Sounds great," Doyle interrupted, clearly not listening.
Cordelia smiled. "Or I thought about going down to that new strip club downtown and signing up for an audition. That'd get my acting career into motion."
Doyle nodded enthusiastically. "Sure, whatever you want." He was looking at an article on makeup application.
"Doyle, you're not even listening to me," the brunette replied, grabbing the magazine and swatting her fiancé with it.
Doyle laughed as Cordelia swatted him harder, tickling him with her spare hand. He grabbed the magazine back from her, trying to get an advantage over her. Just when he appeared to be winning, the shrill ring of the telephone disrupted them. Cordelia dragged herself from the sofa and picked up the receiver.
"Cordelia Chase," she said, trying not to laugh as Doyle pulled funny faces. "Oh, hi. Yes. Oh. Of course. I'll be right over. No, I'll be fine. Thanks." She replaced the receiver and stood still for a moment.
"Who was that?" Doyle asked as he watched Cordelia's face fall.
Cordelia moved to the sofa, wrapping her hands around herself to stop from shaking. "They think they've found him." She turned to face Doyle. "They think they've found the man who attacked me."
An hour later, Cordelia, Angel, and Doyle sat in the waiting room of the cold, damp police station. Cordelia was playing with her hair as Doyle held tightly to one of her hands, and Angel paced the length of the room. They had arrived less than fifteen minutes ago, greeted by Kate Lockley, then told to sit while they prepared things. Angel wasn't quite sure what they were preparing, or how long it would take, but he wished things would move along, for the sake of Cordelia and Doyle.
Finally, a door at the end of the large room opened, and a balding police officer stood in the doorway. "Miss Chase, we're ready for you now," he said, holding the door open as Doyle and Cordelia made their way towards the corridor beyond.
Angel shoved his hands into his pockets. "Good luck," he called after his friends as the door closed silently behind them.
At the end of the long corridor, the police officer stopped and turned to Cordelia. He smiled grimly.
"It might be a little scary, but try not to worry. You'll be able to see him, but he won't be able to see you. Detective Lockley is waiting for you, she'll explain a little more to you when you go in." He opened the door, then stood aside as Cordelia and Doyle entered.
Inside the small room behind the door, Kate Lockley stood watching the scene before her. A detective was questioning a man, who sat facing the window. Kate turned to Cordelia.
"Don't worry, he can't see you. We've brought him in for questioning in connection with two other rapes. With evidence left at the crime scenes, we have been able to connect your case with that of the others. Not that it'll make you feel any better, but he's a known offender. Take your time, look at him carefully, and tell us if this is the man that attacked you." Kate stood away from the window, and Cordelia moved closer. She moved her hand up to touch the glass, then thought better of it.
Carefully, she studied the tone of his skin, the colour of his hair, the way his top lip seemed to curl back as he spoke. And his awful teeth. It was definitely him. Cordelia gasped. "It's him. It's definitely him." She could feel herself shaking uncontrollably, and she turned to Doyle, who took her in his arms, wrapping his arms tightly around her.
"It's okay. It's okay now."
Kate cleared her throat. "You may need to testify in court. Or you can have a lawyer represent you without you being there. We'll let you know. We have your statement on file, so you can go home, and we'll be in contact." She held open the door from the stuffy room, following the couple out.
In the waiting room, Angel had stopped pacing, and was flicking through one of the numerous tattered magazines on the table in front of him. He looked up from an article of how to create decking in a small garden when the door that his friends had vanished through opened again. He dropped the magazine at the sight of Cordelia and Doyle. Doyle gripped his fiancés hand tightly, his face drawn, his eyes rimmed red. Cordelia wiped at the tears on her cheek.
"Was it him?" Angel asked as the two approached.
Cordelia nodded. "It's over. It's all over."
Back in her apartment, Cordelia was settled into the warm depths of a bubble bath. She gazed at a small spot of mould on the grouting between the tiles that lined the bathroom walls, trying to identify when it had grown and why she hadn't cleaned it off yet. There was a knock at the door.
"Delia? It's me. Can I come in?" Doyle's voice was filled with concern.
"Yeah," Cordy replied, not moving her eyes away from the mould. The door clicked open, and Doyle entered, his eyes red from hours of crying. He picked the towel up that sat on the toilet lid, and took residence on the plastic.
"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," he said, keeping his eyes to the ground. Not through dignity for Cordelia, but through shame that he had let his defences down.
Cordelia turned, smiling. "Look at me," she whispered. When he lifted his head, she continued. "I'm fine. It's over. I'm happy." She held out her hand, gesturing for Doyle to approach her. Suds dropped onto the lino covered floor.
Doyle took her hand, kneeling onto the floor. He leaned in, kissing Cordelia softly on the forehead, finding no way to stop the tears that flooded his eyes and fell onto Cordy's soft skin.
"I'm sorry," he said, lifting a hand to wipe his eyes. Cordelia took his head in her hands and moved it to her breast, comforting him as though he were a child.
"It's okay. I'm fine. We'll be fine."
"I'm sorry," he repeated as Cordelia stood, still holding him to her, and climbed out of the bath. With one hand she grabbed her robe from its hook at the back of the door, slipped into it, and led Doyle into the bedroom.
Closing the door behind them, Cordelia led Doyle to the bed and set him down. He shuffled further into the centre to allow room for Cordelia, who joined him, wrapping the robe around her soaked skin.
She took a deep breath and lifted Doyle's head, so that she could see into his eyes. "You've got nothing to be sorry about. None of this is your fault." When he made no attempt to reply, she shifted closer. "You can talk about it, you know?"
Doyle nodded slowly, sighing. "I'm sorry that I didn't protect you from that bastard. I'm sorry that I was more concerned with providing you with a stupid honeymoon than protecting you. I'm sorry that I can't do anything to make you feel any better."
Cordelia smiled, touched. "Doyle, you have nothing in the world to be sorry for. None of this was your fault. I should have called you. I shouldn't have taken the short cut. I should have asked Angel to drive me home." She took Doyle's hands in hers. "But you know what? I can't turn back time. I have to accept that what happened, happened for a reason, and that there's nothing we can do about it now." She looked Doyle in the eye. She saw so much grief that it frightened her. "It's done. We have to move on."
Doyle smiled, moving a hand to touch her face. "How did you get to be so wise?" he asked. Cordelia laughed softly. "God, I love you so much." He leaned in and kissed her softly. Cordelia moved back to lean against the bed head, then gathered Doyle up to her like a child.
Is it really over? she thought as she held onto Doyle. Can I get on with my life?
They held onto each other throughout the night, each crying with separate pains. They talked about first and lost loves, about their families, about the friends they'd had as children and wished they'd kept. Doyle described his feelings of being half demon. Cordelia talked about the visions she had been given after Doyle had 'died'. He talked of his relationship with his father, her of the disgrace she felt towards her parents for letting her live a lie.
They learnt more about each other in that night than they had since they had first set eyes on each other. Cordelia talked about her love for acting, and Doyle his passion for teaching. They learnt about each others dreams for the future. By the end of the night, they had decided on two point four children and a Labrador named Goldie, and that they would live in a large family house on the outskirts of Los Angeles. She would stay at home in between impromptu acting jobs, and he would continue to work for Angel whilst teaching part-time in kindergarten. Most of all, they would be happy and in love. And they'd try and put that incident behind them. It would be whispered about when they were on their own, but never mentioned in public. It would become the bane of their lives, but at the same time, they would learn to accept it - it brought them closer, and made them love each other more than anything in the world.
The End
SPOILERS: None, really
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Follows on from 'Forever'. Please contact me if you wish to archive.
It was a stormy night in Los Angeles. The summer sun had set hours earlier as black clouds filled the sky. The sky had broken around seven-ish, providing the city with a cooling downpour. Although the air was still humid, it was a welcome break from the suffocating humidity and heat of the day. All over the city, people were starting to come alive.
As Cordelia Chase slung her bag over her shoulder and retrieved her mini umbrella from a cluttered desk drawer, ready to leave the safe, comfortable atmosphere of the Angel Investigations office, the elevator from the basement apartment whirred to life. Wires groaned and electricity crackled as the old shaft was lifted from the depths of the office block. The cage door opened, and the company's namesake entered the office, a pile of books under his arm.
"Hey, Cord," he said, dropping the books on top of the filing cabinet. He turned to the window, squinting through the drops of rain on the glass to see into the night. "You off home?" He turned back to the young brunette, hands in pockets.
"Yep," she replied, buttoning her jacket. "Looks like evil took the night off."
Angel nodded. "And Doyle?"
Cordelia smiled. "Him, too. Mentioned something about somebody he had to meet somewhere." She looked up from straightening her skirt. "I wasn't really paying attention."
Angel nodded. "And if anything happens…?"
"I'll call you." She turned to leave. "Goodnight, Angel," she called as she exited.
"Goodnight, Cordy," Angel replied, softly. But she was already gone. Leaving him stood in an empty office with nothing to do.
Rounding the corner just down the street from where the Angel Investigations office was situated, Cordelia was careful not to stand in any puddles. All she needed was to ruin a new pair of shoes. However inexpensive they may have been. Although Doyle and Angel had warned her about taking shortcuts, she couldn't resist turning into the dark alley that would cut her journey in half. The stench of food waste from the Mexican restaurant on the street stung her nostrils, and she quickened her pace. Steam rose from the sewers, and she suddenly felt as though she were in a cheesy horror movie.
Avoiding a puddle of what smelled like mouldy taco sauce, she jumped at the sound of something collapsing behind her. Turning, she became aware of something in the alley behind her. Quickly she dug into her purse to find the can of spray Mace that should have been there. Only it wasn't.
Her pace quickening to a run, Cordelia's heart pounded as the end of the alley came in sight. If she could make it onto the street, into the light, maybe she could lose the stranger that had quickened its pace to match hers.
Suddenly, the stranger was upon her. Screaming, Cordelia turned to try and identify what kind of demon it was. But it was no demon. It was a man. A man about six feet tall, with what would have been blond hair, had it not been sopping wet. Frightened, Cordy dropped her umbrella. Great, she thought. I could have used that as a weapon.
The man had her arm in a vice-like grip, and Cordelia struggled to be released. This made the man hold tighter.
"Stop moving, bitch," the man said in a voice that irritated Cordy more than fingernails and a chalkboard. He brought his face close to hers, and her nostrils stung with stale garlic. Obviously not a vampire, she thought hysterically.
Frightened, she stopped moving. Tears flooded her eyes as her hair clung to her scalp and face. "What…What do you want?" she managed, swallowing hard.
The man smiled. Half his teeth were missing, and the others weren't too far behind them. "You're gonna do what I say," the man said, pushing her to the ground. He knelt down beside her, hitching her skirt up to her waist. "You're gonna do what I say. And you ain't gonna scream."
Angel sat at Cordelia's desk, battering the keyboard before him. He cursed as Lara Croft sailed over the edge of a cliff and into the mouths of a dozen or more tigers.
"Like this resembles reality," he grumbled, opening up the saved game. Beside him, the phone rang, sending the animated Tomb Raider into suspended action as he hit pause.
"Angel Investigations," he said into the receiver. "We help the helpless…" No, that wasn't right. "The hopeless…" That didn't sound quite right either. "Oh, what can I do for you?" he asked, resignedly.
"Angel? It's me," an Irish lilt replied. Doyle. "Is Cordy still there?" His voice was filled with worry and concern.
Angel glanced at his watch. "No. She left an hour ago. Perhaps she decided to shelter until the rain stopped," he replied. He heard the front door click open, and looked up.
"Maybe. But I thought she'd ring me on my cell."
Angel's eyes grew wide. Cordelia stood before him, battered, wet, and near hysterical. "Doyle, she just walked in. I think you need to get here as soon as you can." He put the phone down on the Irish halfling and rushed to Cordelia's side.
"Cordy, what happened?" he said softly as he led her to the sofa. He grabbed a throw from the back and wrapped it around his best friend's shoulders.
Shivering, Cordelia swallowed hard, trying to fight back the tears. "I was taking a short cut and this man followed me and he grabbed me and he…he forced me to the ground and… Oh, God, Angel. I'm so sorry," she leaned on to him, sobbing again.
"It's okay," he whispered softly. "It's okay now."
Filled with dread and fear, Doyle arrived at the Angel Investigations office fifteen minutes after he had spoken with Angel. Casting a few dollar bills at the taxi driver, he raced into the ground floor office to find Cordelia sobbing in the arms of Angel. He looked quizzically at his boss, who stood.
"You should sit with her," he said sombrely. "I'll call the police."
Doyle slipped into the seat beside his fiancé, who immediately wrapped her arms tightly around him. "
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I tried to stop him, but I…I couldn't."
Doyle didn't understand. But when Cordelia looked into his eyes, her own a reflection of what had happened to her, he understood. "Oh, God," he whispered, taking Cordy into a tight embrace. He could hear Angel on the phone to the police. "Oh, God."
Doyle hated hospitals. Ever since the death of his uncle when he was a small child, Doyle had tried to avoid them. But this situation was worse. The woman he loved was alone while some stranger ran tests, took notes, and made observations.
Sitting down on one of the faux leather seats, Doyle put his head in his hands. Beside him, Angel stared at the same spot of damp on the ceiling he had been staring at for the past forty-five minutes. On the opposite side of the corridor, guarding the door that Cordy had been taken through, LAPD detective, Kate Lockley, leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Angel.
"What's taking so long?" Doyle asked, anger rising in his voice. "I should be with her."
Kate moved away from the wall. "It's standard procedure in rape -cases," she replied, almost matter-of-factly. To her, this was simply another case. Her job.
Doyle looked up at her, his eyes narrow with anger. Before he could say anything, the door to Cordelia's room opened, and a gentle looking female doctor entered the corridor.
"Mr. Doyle? She's asking for you." She held open the door, closing it carefully when Doyle left the corridor. The woman - Dr. Hawkins - turned to face Kate. "I'll get the results faxed to you asap," she said softly. If Angel had been any other person he might not have heard. But he wasn't, and he did.
When Dr. Hawkins left, Kate turned to him. "The chances of finding him are pretty slim," she informed him. "But I'll get a team together and we'll look at the evidence. I'll need to get another statement from Cordelia." She pulled a notebook out of her jacket.
"In the morning." It wasn't open to debate. Angel stared at the floor.
"It's better that I get it tonight. She may forget some -."
"In the morning," Angel interjected, staring her in the eye. "She's been through enough tonight already, don't you think? So if you don't mind…" He stood, silently dismissing the detective.
Kate was prepared to argue, but she saw the determination in Angel's eyes, and didn't bother. Instead, she turned on her heels and left. As an afterthought, she paused, turning. "I'm going to post a couple of officers outside her room, just in case." Then, without waiting for a reply, she continued down the corridor.
Angel looked at his watch. It would be dawn soon. He should be returning to his apartment. Standing, he dug for change in his pocket and headed to the payphone down the hall. He lifted the receiver, fed the coins and dialled the number. A sleepy voice answered after the fourth ring.
"Wesley Wyndham-Price," the voice said, filled with sleep.
"It's me," Angel said, looking around the hallway. He could see Dr. Hawkins talking to a uniformed police officer. He turned away as she pointed in his direction, the direction of Cordelia's room.
"Angel?" he asked, suddenly alert. "What is it?"
Angel took a deep, unneeded breath. "It's Cordy. She's in the hospital."
There was a gasp from the other end. "What happened? What can I do?"
"Doyle's down here, but he needs to get some rest. Can you get down here? I'm at the woman's ward, room 10. I'll meet you here."
"But Angel," the Englishman protested. "It's almost dawn."
"Don't worry about me. Just get over here." He hung up the phone and headed towards room 10.
As Cordelia slept, the sedatives coursing through her veins, Doyle held onto her hand, an anchor in reality. He turned slightly as the door opened, and Angel entered.
"They gave her sedatives to calm her," he explained. "Dr. Hawkins wants to keep her in overnight."
Angel nodded. "It's for the best." He moved to Cordelia's side, opposite Doyle. "I called Wesley. He's going to come down and take over," he explained, taking his best friends other hand. It felt warm against his own, unnaturally cold ones.
"I want to stay with her," Doyle replied. "I want to keep her safe."
Angel let go of Cordy's hand and moved to the foot of the bed. "Doyle, you need to get some rest, or at least a shower. And Cordy'll be wanting some clothes in the morning when she leaves." He gestured to the bag of tattered clothes on a chair under the window.
Doyle sighed. "I guess so," he replied, resignedly. "But I want to know as soon as she wakes up."
Angel nodded. "Of course."
There was a gentle tap at the door, and Angel and Doyle turned as it opened. A dishevelled Wesley Wyndham-Price stood before them, panting.
"I got here as quick as I could," he explained. He gestured to the sleeping Cordy. "How is she?"
"They gave her sedatives, she should be asleep for hours," Doyle reported, collecting his jacket from the back of the chair he had been sat in. He turned to leave, followed by Angel. As he passed Wesley, he placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Thanks, man," he said softly.
Wesley smiled, and watched as the two men left. Then he settled himself into the chair Doyle had vacated, and began his vigil.
In her mind, Cordelia was back in the dark alley. The sound of the rain seemed to be magnified as it hit the asphalt. The smell of rotting garbage was heady, worse than before. She felt herself move in slow motion, felt a hand grip her arm. She was falling…
Then she was on the floor, facing a blond, middle-aged man. Stubble outlined his features, defining his thinness. She tried to bat him off of her, pushed and shoved. But it was no use.
He was calling her name - funny, she didn't remember giving it him. Over and over, like a mantra. As his hand came down over her mouth, she managed one last scream…
…And woke up in the arms of Wesley Wyndham-Price. Sobbing, she buried her face in his soft linen shirt. He stroked her hair, soothing her with his touch. She lifted her head and looked into his eyes.
"Oh, God, Wesley. He was here. I could feel him touching me." She clung to the sleeves of her friends shirt.
"It's okay, Cordy. There's no-one here but you and me." He gently set her back down on the pillows. "Rest. Doyle will be back soon."
Cordelia placed a hand on her forehead, and Wesley noticed that she was sweating. "It felt so real," she whispered. She looked up as the door of her room opened, and Doyle entered, carrying a large duffel bag. Noticing that she was awake, he dropped the bag and dashed to her side, wrapping his arms around her.
"Oh, Delia," he whispered.
"I'm okay," she assured him. "Just a bad dream." She gestured to the bag. "What's in there?"
Remembering the bag, Doyle turned and pulled it towards him. "I got you a few clothes," he replied, placing the bag gently on the bed. '
She opened it, raising an eyebrow at the contents. There had to be at least three pairs of pants, four sweaters, and almost ten tees, along with a half-dozen pairs of shoes.
Doyle smiled sheepishly. "I wasn't sure what you'd want, so Dennis and me narrowed it down to this."
"Thank you." She turned to look at the clock beside her bed - it was approaching noon. "I'll be glad to get out of here," she said, wearily.
The three glanced up as the door opened. A flushed Dr. Hawkins entered, smoothing her hair.
"I just had to fight to get past the security guarding this room," she said, smiling. "How are you feeling today?" She shoved her hands into her uniform white jacket and approached the bed.
Cordelia bowed her head. "Good," she replied, lifting her head to look the doctor in the eye. "I'd like to go home."
The kindly woman nodded. "I don't see why that should be a problem," she replied. "I just need you to fill in a couple of forms." She leaned closer to Cordelia, almost conspiratorially. "I'm not sure about Heckle and Jeckle outside, though. They've been stood there most of the night. That detective was adamant that they watch over you until you left." She gestured at Wesley and Doyle. "But with friends like these, who needs security?" She smiled, then turned to left.
Cordelia slowly lifted her feet out from beneath the sheets and placed them on the cold lino floor.
Wesley, seeing that the brunette was eager to leave, blushed, and turned to the door. "Yes. Well. I'll be outside if I'm needed." He dashed out of the room quickly, leaving Doyle and Cordelia smiling after him.
Grimacing, Cordelia stood. Doyle busied himself by pulling clothes out of the bag and trying to match them to make an outfit. So far he wasn't doing too good. Giving up, he turned to face Cordelia…
…And stopped in his tracks at the sight before him.
Cordelia stood before him, hospital gown round her ankles. He could see the bruise marks on her midriff, so much like hand prints, and the cuts and grazes around her arms, legs and chest. She had pulled her hair back, exposing a large gash on the side of her cheek.
Noticing Doyle's expression, Cordelia frowned and turned to face the mirror on the back of the door. What she saw made her cry.
Doyle rushed to her side, taking her in his arms and turning her away from her reflection. "It's okay, Delia," he soothed. "They'll heal. Don't cry." He didn't really know what to say, what to do. Of course the external batterings would heal. But what about the internal ones? The ones that would haunt her for eternity?
Guiding her to the bed, Doyle grabbed a pair of sweat pants and a sweater, helping her to slip them on. She sat on the bed while he laced her sneakers and brushed her hair, putting it into a loose ponytail. When they were finished, he packed up the remainder of the clothes, and led her to the door.
Out in the reception area, Wesley sat with the two officers.
"And did she mention anything else about the attack last night?" one asked. His hair was thinning, and the years of stress and donuts were beginning to show around his face and stomach.
"What? No," Wesley replied distractedly, his eyes on room 10. He watched as the door opened and Cordelia exited, followed closely by Doyle.
The other officer, slightly younger than the first, stood and made his way towards the couple. Wesley stood, intending on stopping him in his tracks.
"Good morning," the officer said. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your attack last night."
Doyle saw Cordelia tense, and led her carefully past the officer. "Come on, love."
But the officer followed. "Did the man who attacked you have any distinguishing features?" he asked, reading from a carefully plotted script. "What about an accent? Like, was he from the south or something?"
"Oh, dear God," Doyle groaned in Cordelia's ear. Out loud, he said, "I can see detective Lockley has her finest on this case. Why don't you boys go back to eating donuts and watching 'Cops', or whatever it is you do. She answered all these last night."
They had reached the reception desk, and Cordelia began signing the clipboard full of forms. They could hear the squeak of rubber shoes approaching, and shortly after, Dr. Hawkins approached the group.
"Is everything okay here?" she asked, addressing Cordelia, Doyle and Wesley.
"Everythings fine, Ma'am," the younger officer replied, shifting his weight. "Just asking Miss…" he stopped to consult his note book. Doyle rolled his eyes.
"Come on, Delia."
Dr. Hawkins narrowed her eyes. "I suggest you get yourself out of here before I have you thrown out," she said, folding her arms. "Go."
The four watched as the two officers left, then the doctor turned to Cordelia, handing her a business card. "If you ever want to talk, you can call me, or come down. It doesn't matter whether it's day or night, you just let me know." Next she handed her a vial of sleeping tablets. "And if you have any problems sleeping, one of these should do the trick." She smiled, a warm, motherly smile. "Take care, Cordelia."
"Thanks," Cordelia smiled. Then she let herself be led away by Doyle and Wesley.
In the parking lot, Cordelia allowed herself to be seated in the passenger side of Angel's car, lifting her arms slightly as Doyle buckled her in, testing the belt as if he were scared that the pressure would cause her to collapse. Wesley hopped into the back, settling the duffle bag on his lap. Doyle climbed in the driver's side, and started the car.
As they headed back to Cordelia's apartment, Doyle turned to face his fiancé. She looked so frail, as if she might break if he mishandled her. "Cordy, are you hungry?" he asked, concerned.
"No, I'm fine," she replied, turning to face him. She saw the look of concern on his face, and smiled gently. "I guess I could use a little something, though. Keep my strength up."
Doyle smiled, obviously pleased. "Good. That's good. We'll eat."
Half an hour later, Doyle pulled into the parking lot of a small, oceanside diner. He helped Cordelia out of the car, taking her hand as he led her to the entrance. Wesley followed, taking in the salty air.
At the foyer, an aging man welcomed them and led them towards a booth in the corner that looked out onto the harbour beyond. Cordelia climbed in beside the large picture window, taking in the view. She wrapped her arms around herself as Doyle and Wesley joined her.
Wesley scooted across the booth to face Cordelia. "How are you feeling?" he asked as a young waitress set down three glasses of water.
"A little sore," she replied. "And, a little hungry, I guess." She turned to Doyle. How had he suddenly turned so old-looking? He looked as though he had aged overnight. She realised it was probably worry, but it frightened her. "I can't stop thinking about what happened. I play it over and over in my head, thinking of the 'what ifs'. What if I had gone home earlier. What if I had asked Angel to drive me instead of walking. What if I had just fought a little harder." A tear slid down her face, falling into the gash on her cheek.
Doyle wrapped her into a hug. "Don't, Delia. Please." Wesley handed him some napkins from the dispenser, and he gently wiped away the tears.
Cordelia sighed, smiled weakly, and picked up the menu. "Let's see," she said with false cheeriness. "Maybe I'll just have some soup. Perhaps some clam chowder."
Doyle watched his princess. Inside he couldn't stand himself. If he had been there, he could have walked her home, instead of out planning their honeymoon. It all seemed irrelevant now. Would she still want to get married? Did she still love him? As he watched Cordelia tuck into her chowder, he wondered if she still wanted to be around him.
Angel couldn't sleep. He wandered around Cordelia's apartment, moving magazines and pouring glass upon glass of water that he wasn't going to drink. Once, he turned on the television. Oprah Winfrey was talking to some new Hollywood star, cheery chatter emitting from the box. Dennis hovered around him: he could tell by the way the air shifted occasionally.
He tried to drink from the carton of blood that Cordelia had bought for him, but he couldn't. He wanted to go out, search for the man who had taken from her so cruelly, but the sun was still shining high in the midday sky. So he set about straightening the already immaculate apartment, ready for its occupants return.
Just after three that afternoon, Angel heard the door open, and Cordelia and Doyle entered. The latter set his fiancé's bag down onto the floor, and led her into the lounge. He smiled grimly at the vampire as Cordelia sat down heavily on the sofa.
"We went for a drive," he explained. "Cordelia wanted some air. Wesley says he'll get in touch later on this evening."
He moved into the kitchen, gesturing for Angel to follow. "I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. I can't tell her I know how she feels, because I don't." He sighed, leaning against the refrigerator. He glanced at Cordelia, who was absentmindedly flicking through a magazine. "She blames herself for what happened."
Angel shifted his weight, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You told her she shouldn't, though." He noticed Doyle's vacant look. "Doyle, you did tell her it wasn't her fault, didn't you?" His voice rose with anger.
Doyle shrugged. "I couldn't. I wanted to, but I couldn't. She should have been more careful. I've told her about taking short cuts. I've told her to ask you for a lift if she needs one, but she didn't. She tries to be too independent instead of letting people help her."
Angel closed the gap between himself and Doyle. "She is your fiance, Doyle. You are supposed to support her, not blame her for another persons actions. I can't believe you."
"Hey, man, I don't feel good feeling this way. I know I shouldn't blame her, and I don't, really. I simply think she could have helped herself, stopped this from happening."
"Whilst we're at it, we could bring up the subject of where you were. You left early, without telling me." Angel was seething, trying hard not to blame the halfling before him, but finding it irresistibly not to blame someone other than Cordelia for what happened. He knew that, in reality, they should be blaming the guy that had attacked her. But he wasn't thinking rationally. Neither was Doyle.
Doyle leaned forward, his face inches from Angel's. "You want to know where I was the other night?" he asked, stepping even closer. "I was arranging a honeymoon for my fiancé. I was booking us into a hotel in Dublin. I was going to take her to a beautiful city, feed her fine food and wine, let her know how much she meant to me." He stopped, studying Angel's eyes. But Angel wasn't looking at him. He was looking past him. At Cordelia.
"Doyle?" she whispered. "What's going on?" Her voice was quiet, like that of a frightened child. "Why are you two arguing?"
Doyle turned around, taking Cordelia in his arms. "Nothing, love. Angel just wanted to know where me and you went today." He turned to look Angel in the eyes. Then he let go of Cordelia and led her into the bedroom. Angel sighed, and moved into the dining room.
Shutting the bedroom door softly behind them, Doyle led Cordelia to her bed, sitting her down between the comfortable sheets and pillows. She leaned back into the pillows, sighing and closing her eyes. Doyle sat down next to her, taking her hands in his.
"Doyle, I want to ask you something," she asked, keeping her eyes closed.
"Anything, princess." He opened his eyes and turned to look at her.
Cordelia breathed in deeply. "I want you to move in with me."
Doyle sat still for a moment, processing the question. When he didn't reply immediately, Cordelia turned to look at him. "Doyle?"
Shaking himself from his reverie, Doyle smiled. "I'd be thrilled to."
Cordelia smiled. "I'd feel better having you near. I have Dennis, but it's not as good as having a real, breathing, living, handsome man with me." She leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. "I want to try and get over this whole ordeal as quickly as possible." Her voice broke slightly, and she rubbed at her eyes. Then she looked up at Doyle. "I heard you and Angel talking. Do you really blame me for what happened?"
Doyle swallowed hard. What could he say? He didn't blame her, as such, he just thought she was a little more sensible. He felt a little disappointed more than anything. He shook his head. "No, I don't blame you, princess. I just wish that you could have phoned me and I would have come and met you. But I would never blame you." He looked down at his hands. "I guess I partly blamed myself for not telling you where I was going and how to get in touch with me."
Cordelia frowned. "Where were you, anyway?" she asked, slightly suspicious.
Doyle sighed, leaning forward so he could reach into the back pocket of his brown corduroy jeans, pulling out an envelope. "I was going to wait until we were married. But, with the surcumstances being as they are, here."
Cordelia smiled, intrigued. "What's this?" she asked, fingering the envelope.
"Open it," Doyle replied, warm inside from Cordelia's smile.
She smiled, ripping open the envelope. She pulled out the air tickets, gasping. "Oh, Doyle," she exclaimed. "Thank you so much!" She reached forward and grabbed her fiancé in a tight hug.
"I'm sorry I didn't discuss it with you beforehand. I wanted to surprise you so much, to make you happy."
Cordelia swiped at the tears that had begun to fall. "I love you so much," she said. "And I still want us to be together. I can't forget what happened last night. I won't. But I can't stand still. I have a life to get on with. A life with you."
The winter had soon set in, and the air had become unusually cold. Cordelia shivered as she set the last of Doyle's boxes onto the living room floor. Doyle entered a few minutes later carrying a suitcase and a large leopard skin lamp shade. Cordelia's eyes grew at the sight of the shade.
"No way," she said sternly. "That thing is not coming into my house. You can leave it outside. With any luck someone will take it to the petting zoo."
Doyle pretended to look hurt. "What do you mean? This is a classic. I got this for a buck at a garage sale about six years ago."
Cordelia gestured around the room. "Do you really think that goes with this?" she asked.
Doyle opened the door and put the lamp shade outside. "It was getting a little tattered anyway." He closed the door, took off his shoes and flopped down on the sofa besides Cordelia. "So, what are your plans for the evening?" he asked, picking up a copy of 'Cosmopolitan' from the coffee table and flicking through it.
Cordelia sighed. "Well, I thought we could rent a movie…"
"Sounds great," Doyle interrupted, clearly not listening.
Cordelia smiled. "Or I thought about going down to that new strip club downtown and signing up for an audition. That'd get my acting career into motion."
Doyle nodded enthusiastically. "Sure, whatever you want." He was looking at an article on makeup application.
"Doyle, you're not even listening to me," the brunette replied, grabbing the magazine and swatting her fiancé with it.
Doyle laughed as Cordelia swatted him harder, tickling him with her spare hand. He grabbed the magazine back from her, trying to get an advantage over her. Just when he appeared to be winning, the shrill ring of the telephone disrupted them. Cordelia dragged herself from the sofa and picked up the receiver.
"Cordelia Chase," she said, trying not to laugh as Doyle pulled funny faces. "Oh, hi. Yes. Oh. Of course. I'll be right over. No, I'll be fine. Thanks." She replaced the receiver and stood still for a moment.
"Who was that?" Doyle asked as he watched Cordelia's face fall.
Cordelia moved to the sofa, wrapping her hands around herself to stop from shaking. "They think they've found him." She turned to face Doyle. "They think they've found the man who attacked me."
An hour later, Cordelia, Angel, and Doyle sat in the waiting room of the cold, damp police station. Cordelia was playing with her hair as Doyle held tightly to one of her hands, and Angel paced the length of the room. They had arrived less than fifteen minutes ago, greeted by Kate Lockley, then told to sit while they prepared things. Angel wasn't quite sure what they were preparing, or how long it would take, but he wished things would move along, for the sake of Cordelia and Doyle.
Finally, a door at the end of the large room opened, and a balding police officer stood in the doorway. "Miss Chase, we're ready for you now," he said, holding the door open as Doyle and Cordelia made their way towards the corridor beyond.
Angel shoved his hands into his pockets. "Good luck," he called after his friends as the door closed silently behind them.
At the end of the long corridor, the police officer stopped and turned to Cordelia. He smiled grimly.
"It might be a little scary, but try not to worry. You'll be able to see him, but he won't be able to see you. Detective Lockley is waiting for you, she'll explain a little more to you when you go in." He opened the door, then stood aside as Cordelia and Doyle entered.
Inside the small room behind the door, Kate Lockley stood watching the scene before her. A detective was questioning a man, who sat facing the window. Kate turned to Cordelia.
"Don't worry, he can't see you. We've brought him in for questioning in connection with two other rapes. With evidence left at the crime scenes, we have been able to connect your case with that of the others. Not that it'll make you feel any better, but he's a known offender. Take your time, look at him carefully, and tell us if this is the man that attacked you." Kate stood away from the window, and Cordelia moved closer. She moved her hand up to touch the glass, then thought better of it.
Carefully, she studied the tone of his skin, the colour of his hair, the way his top lip seemed to curl back as he spoke. And his awful teeth. It was definitely him. Cordelia gasped. "It's him. It's definitely him." She could feel herself shaking uncontrollably, and she turned to Doyle, who took her in his arms, wrapping his arms tightly around her.
"It's okay. It's okay now."
Kate cleared her throat. "You may need to testify in court. Or you can have a lawyer represent you without you being there. We'll let you know. We have your statement on file, so you can go home, and we'll be in contact." She held open the door from the stuffy room, following the couple out.
In the waiting room, Angel had stopped pacing, and was flicking through one of the numerous tattered magazines on the table in front of him. He looked up from an article of how to create decking in a small garden when the door that his friends had vanished through opened again. He dropped the magazine at the sight of Cordelia and Doyle. Doyle gripped his fiancés hand tightly, his face drawn, his eyes rimmed red. Cordelia wiped at the tears on her cheek.
"Was it him?" Angel asked as the two approached.
Cordelia nodded. "It's over. It's all over."
Back in her apartment, Cordelia was settled into the warm depths of a bubble bath. She gazed at a small spot of mould on the grouting between the tiles that lined the bathroom walls, trying to identify when it had grown and why she hadn't cleaned it off yet. There was a knock at the door.
"Delia? It's me. Can I come in?" Doyle's voice was filled with concern.
"Yeah," Cordy replied, not moving her eyes away from the mould. The door clicked open, and Doyle entered, his eyes red from hours of crying. He picked the towel up that sat on the toilet lid, and took residence on the plastic.
"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," he said, keeping his eyes to the ground. Not through dignity for Cordelia, but through shame that he had let his defences down.
Cordelia turned, smiling. "Look at me," she whispered. When he lifted his head, she continued. "I'm fine. It's over. I'm happy." She held out her hand, gesturing for Doyle to approach her. Suds dropped onto the lino covered floor.
Doyle took her hand, kneeling onto the floor. He leaned in, kissing Cordelia softly on the forehead, finding no way to stop the tears that flooded his eyes and fell onto Cordy's soft skin.
"I'm sorry," he said, lifting a hand to wipe his eyes. Cordelia took his head in her hands and moved it to her breast, comforting him as though he were a child.
"It's okay. I'm fine. We'll be fine."
"I'm sorry," he repeated as Cordelia stood, still holding him to her, and climbed out of the bath. With one hand she grabbed her robe from its hook at the back of the door, slipped into it, and led Doyle into the bedroom.
Closing the door behind them, Cordelia led Doyle to the bed and set him down. He shuffled further into the centre to allow room for Cordelia, who joined him, wrapping the robe around her soaked skin.
She took a deep breath and lifted Doyle's head, so that she could see into his eyes. "You've got nothing to be sorry about. None of this is your fault." When he made no attempt to reply, she shifted closer. "You can talk about it, you know?"
Doyle nodded slowly, sighing. "I'm sorry that I didn't protect you from that bastard. I'm sorry that I was more concerned with providing you with a stupid honeymoon than protecting you. I'm sorry that I can't do anything to make you feel any better."
Cordelia smiled, touched. "Doyle, you have nothing in the world to be sorry for. None of this was your fault. I should have called you. I shouldn't have taken the short cut. I should have asked Angel to drive me home." She took Doyle's hands in hers. "But you know what? I can't turn back time. I have to accept that what happened, happened for a reason, and that there's nothing we can do about it now." She looked Doyle in the eye. She saw so much grief that it frightened her. "It's done. We have to move on."
Doyle smiled, moving a hand to touch her face. "How did you get to be so wise?" he asked. Cordelia laughed softly. "God, I love you so much." He leaned in and kissed her softly. Cordelia moved back to lean against the bed head, then gathered Doyle up to her like a child.
Is it really over? she thought as she held onto Doyle. Can I get on with my life?
They held onto each other throughout the night, each crying with separate pains. They talked about first and lost loves, about their families, about the friends they'd had as children and wished they'd kept. Doyle described his feelings of being half demon. Cordelia talked about the visions she had been given after Doyle had 'died'. He talked of his relationship with his father, her of the disgrace she felt towards her parents for letting her live a lie.
They learnt more about each other in that night than they had since they had first set eyes on each other. Cordelia talked about her love for acting, and Doyle his passion for teaching. They learnt about each others dreams for the future. By the end of the night, they had decided on two point four children and a Labrador named Goldie, and that they would live in a large family house on the outskirts of Los Angeles. She would stay at home in between impromptu acting jobs, and he would continue to work for Angel whilst teaching part-time in kindergarten. Most of all, they would be happy and in love. And they'd try and put that incident behind them. It would be whispered about when they were on their own, but never mentioned in public. It would become the bane of their lives, but at the same time, they would learn to accept it - it brought them closer, and made them love each other more than anything in the world.
The End