I'll Be Seeing You
By: Exreus (steal and die painfully)
Summary: On the night of Doyle's death, Cordelia cries herself to sleep over what could, no, what should have been between Doyle and herself. Doyle is rather distressed himself, in whatever heavenly realm he was sent to after the unfortunate turn of events, and requests that the Higher Powers grant him what last night to say good-bye to the woman he loves. What happens when they consent?
Author's Note: Y'know, I never planned to write any fanfics, but I rewatched the Doyle episodes of Angel and I swear my heart broke. Then I found out Glenn Quinn had died, and honestly I've had a serious case of fangirl depression ever since. I can't sleep properly anymore, and I feel really sad. So I'll be writing a good few Doyle/Cordelia fanfics in hope of finding some kind of release. So be prepared for a hefty serving of corn, cheese, fluff, and all other things lovey-dovey. Not to mention perhaps a tad on the emotional side. There is some sex in it, however, just not written in an obscenely detailed fashion.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, just the writing, blah blah blah. If I owned it, trust me, things would have been different. Also, the song lyrics you'll be seeing is "Broken Pieces" by Clannad, an Irish band. Fitting, no?
Dedication: To the loyal fans of the Doyle/Cordelia relationship, and in memory of both Doyle and Glenn Quinn. May he rest in peace.
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"Is that it? Am I done?"
Cordelia Chase felt like dying, like curling up in a corner and just dying. But no, she remained seated on her couch, in her apartment. The apartment Doyle helped her find. She felt a fresh bout of tears begin to stream down her cheeks.
Broken pieces everywhere,
I stilled my mind, and found I care
Running on the morning tide,
Something you would say to me.
"Stop it," she chastised herself in a voice failing in its attempt at sternness. "He was just a friend. Not your husband, not your fiancee, not even your boyfriend for God's sake! Get over him!" But that was it, wasn't it? Their relationship, it was all possibilities. Potential. And now it wasn't anything, and it never would be. Nothing would make it easier, but if she had just given Doyle a chance, before it was too late ... but no. By the time she had bothered giving him the encouragement to ask her out, it was far too late. She bit her bottom lip to keep her sobs from becoming noisy, Dennis was worried enough, without her bawling like a little baby.
We drank the waters of delight,
We played the games of wrong and right.
Did we understand
They're just footsteps in the sand?
For the millionth time that night, Cordelia lifted the remote and rewound the tape that was the best reminder she had of him, the thing that she vowed to watch at least once every night, so as not to forget his voice. She had gotten home, searched for that picture that had been taken what seemed like forever ago, collapsed on the couch with his picture and the tape, and draped herself in his jacket. The brown leather one that he wore so often. It smelled as he did; of musky cologne, faintly of alcohol, and the tobacco smell that often attached itself to people who frequented pubs and bars and the like. Which Doyle often did. She breathed in deep his scent, and it encompassed her, like a comforting cloak, calming her tears ever so slightly.
Oh long dreaming, find my tears
I could love you, all the years.
There are times like today
The wind will blow in a gentle way.
He was short, he was neither rich nor famous, he had bad habits that she had been less than approving of ... but that was all just excuses, wasn't it? She knew she liked him right from the start, despite all her denial, it had been loving him that had taken far too long to realize and accept. But was it love, or just the temptation of what could have been? She shook her head, hitting the play bottom to watch that tape just one more time.
Mark it down in frozen glass
Lied to me that I could win.
So many ways to share a love
With words and touch we promised much.
No, there had definitely been something more than friendship-like during the time they knew each other. That was way she treated him like she had, why she tried to push him away. No more mistakes like Xander Harris. Well, that had been true this time. This mistake had been so much worse, because unlike her relationship with Xander, she didn't chock it up to temporary insanity or teenage hormones. There was something real with Doyle, something warm and comforting. Some kind belonging.
Do we understand I believe. I believe.
The footsteps in the sand?
I believe too easily.
I believe too easily.
Damn him. Damn him to Hell for making her feel this way and breaking her heart, for it was definitely shattered into pieces now. No sooner had the though occurred to her than she regretted it. It was, at least in part, her fault as well. Why couldn't she just stopped being a bitch for one day, just given Doyle a chance ...
Oh long dreaming find my tears
I could love you all the years.
Here I stand still the same
I guess this showcase changed the name.
... and now she never could. Never will find out if it was the kind of love that would get them married to each other eventually, have kids, grow old together, or just the kind that lasts a little while before they couldn't stand the sight of each other.
"Is that it? Am I done?"
Hard to know who plays the fool,
Never looking back on years
I wonder now which way to face
I catch a vision of this place.
Was he done? Yes, Doyle was dead, but that meant nothing. Nothing, damn it! His memory would more than likely haunt both her and any relationships she cares to have after this. She knew, no matter how much she'd love any future lovers, she'd always be listening for that voice with the lilting Irish brogue, look up into their eyes and half expect Doyle's sea-green ones to be looking back at her, that heart melting smile upon his lips ... she sniffled in a manner that sounded pathetic to her own ears, and once again pressed rewind.
Did we understand
The footsteps in the sand?
"Is that it? Am I done?"
---------------------------------------------------
It's pretty much expected that once you finish your life, and are allowed into what one presumes to be Heaven, you can trust that your loved ones that you left behind will get through things and move on. Find some measure of peace. A reward. The big cookie after eating a dinner comprised wholly of your most loathed vegetable. But no, Doyle didn't happen to be granted this one last measure of peace. He worried about Cordelia, 'Delia, his beloved Princess.
He had thought, had rightfully assumed, that giving her that last and first kiss would enable him to have some peace of mind, peace of body, peace of bloody well anything when he left the mortal plane. But no, if anything he thought more of her. Looking back to see her devastated expression at his choice had worsened (bettered?) his current situation.
He'd made light of his feelings for her, joked constantly. Maybe that's way she didn't take him seriously in the beginning, never thought he'd do what he'd done. Underestimating someone often spelt disaster, no matter what the situation. And this particular disaster was heartbreak on both sides. But he was dead now, and there was nothing he could do about that, was there?
"You're unhappy."
"That easy to tell?" Was his reply, he raked a hand through his short, somewhat curly black hair and plopped down into a sitting position. This might take a bit of time. Unexplained voices from nowhere appeared to be a rather ordinary, everyday occurrence up here where the dead ended up. And they really tended to state the obvious far too much to be any good in a conversation. Or, at least, the ones he had spoken to thus far were.
"You want to go back to her, and to him. To both of them. To the mortal plane," it continued delicately, voice laced with just the slightest hint of compassion.
Doyle perked up immediately. This particular voice had broached a subject that the others hadn't. That might be a good sign. "Yeah, I do. Could you help me out?"
It hesitated before answered. "I doubt that the others would be pleased, but I think I can send you back-"
"Thanks, man," Doyle cut it off hurriedly, not especially wanting to hear any details, they wouldn't be good. "You're a life saver, in the literal sense. Feel free to send me a mind-splittin' headache anytime you feel like helping one of us mortals." He hauled himself to his feet.
"- for one night." It finished, seemingly not noticing that the man had interrupted.
Doyle sighed. "Fine. I'll take what I can get. At least I'll be able t'say a proper farewell to 'Delia." Bah. One night probably wouldn't ease his mind by much.
"You'll also only be there as a dream," it added sadly, then, in a disturbingly sunny voice; "You'll get to be the man of her dreams."
Doyle made a noise of utter disgust, glowering in a rather intimidating manner up at the vast blue expanse of the sky above him. If the voice hadn't have been disembodied, chances are it would have cowered away at his glare. He was about to shout something profane at nothing when he was hit with the distinct sensation of being knocked backwards and everything went black.
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She must've fallen asleep, and be dreaming, seeing as there was no other explanation for her to be sitting on the edge of a green velvet draped four poster bed in a room that was not her own and be clothed in a flowing white nightgown that she had never even seen before. But it all felt so real. Glancing around the room, she noticed there were pictures of Doyle and herself she had never seen before, of events that had never occurred (she certainly didn't remember marrying him) littered around the room, and the windows were covered with yet more green velvet that let in neither sunlight nor moonlight.
A saddened sigh escaped her lips. So her subconcious had decided to torment her in her dreams as well, for even now she couldn't find him. She hung her head, gaze downcast to the floor. Tears were just streaming down her cheeks when someone opened the door and quickly entered. Cordelia didn't look up, even as she felt the mattress of the bed move slightly downwards as some weight was added to it. There was a moment of complete silence, then whoever it was that had invaded her dream reached out and tenderly stroked her cheek. Still she did nothing. She was determined to ignore whatever it was so that she could wallow in her grief privately.
And then she smelt it. That familiar scent of musky cologne, faint alcohol, and slightly tobacco like. A bubble of hope rose in her chest and her head darted up, sea-green eyes instantly meeting with her own chocolate brown ones. She launched herself at him, dream Doyle or not, he was still Doyle, and clung to him as she burst into a fit of crying. Loud, heavy crying.
"Sshh, 'Delia, darlin'. It's alright," he comforted her, stroking her hair gently and simply rocking her back and forth. She stiffened and stopped crying the instant the words were out of his mouth. Anger flared through her mind and, pulling away, she promptly slapped him. Hard. He stared at her in shock, his hand reaching up to delicately touch the stinging spot on his right cheek where she had slapped him. What had that been for?
"No, it's not all right, Doyle, you Irish idiot!" She practically screamed at him. Even though she was just dreaming him, she was fairly certain she wanted to vent her anger, frustration and heartbreak on something Doyle-esque. Dream-Doyle would do just fine for the purpose. "You're dead! DEAD! You just had to go off and do the heroic thing, didn't you? Leaving me heartbroken and pining! Who do you think you are, doing that then making my brain dream you up and making it hurt all the more!" Her hand rose in preparation to slap him once again.
Doyle flinched, but reached up and gripped the raised hand in his own, noticeably larger one. "'Delia," he said softly, "listen for a moment, will you? I know this is just a dream, but I'm actually here. So are you, though I'm not entirely sure how. The Higher Powers can be quite vague, y'know. Back to the point. I'm only here as long as you stay asleep, because I wanted t'say good-bye. I'm more than certain that the PTB could've been a bit more generous with my last wish, but-"
But he got cut off as Cordelia lunged forward yet again, pulling him to her in a fierce, passionate kiss that left even the one they had shared, before his death, trailing behind. When they finally parted, Doyle's eyes were wide and Cordelia had a look of determination upon her face.
"Make love to me," she said in a commanding voice that discouraged argument.
If possible, Doyle's eyes widened yet more. Her command had made a large, noisy bubble of elation pop up in his mind. This was more than he could've hoped for, but it wasn't a good idea. It would satisfy neither of them, because he'd know he'd only wish for more in the long eternity of death yet to come. So, despite her tone of voice, he argued anyway. "Princess, I really don't-"
"Shut up, Doyle," she replied, her voice now rather shrill and teetering on the edge of hysteria. "If this is all the PTB will let me have of you, then we'll do what fate never allowed to happen after in a normal way."
That won him over wholly and completely. Although, granted, it wouldn't have taken too much persuasion anyway. They locked lips in yet another kiss, and slowly began the process of undressing one another.
Not a single area of either of their bodies went unexplored by the other. Lip, tongues and hands followed every curve, every line, every niche of the other's body. They took their time, not wanting to hurry through this moment that had been stolen from time. It was slow and romantic and everything they had imagined their first time together would be, but the sadness of the situation didn't escape them. By the time Doyle entered her, she was weeping from the bitter-sweetness of it all.
Afterwards, they simply held each other, laying tangled in the sheets of Cordelia's dreamscape. He stroked her hair, murmuring yet more words of comfort.
"I love you, Princess," he whispered softly.
Cordelia shifted slightly. "Doyle," she began, "I-"
But it was too late. Darkness hit them both suddenly and Cordelia just allowed the spiraling darkness to encompass her.
---------------------------------------------------
Cordelia awoke with an anguished cry, sunlight filtering through the curtains to fall across her face. She sat bolt upright, and Doyle's jacket slipped off of her and to the floor with the sudden movement.
As she stooped over to reclaim it, she felt like crying again. Had that been a dream? Something her mind had formed? Or was it real? It had felt so real. Clutching the jacket to her, she picked up the picture of her and Doyle, his green eyes looking up at her.
She smiled tearfully. It had been real, there was no longer any doubt in her mind about that. Doyle had come to say good-bye. Running a finger over the image tenderly, she leaned in close to it.
"I'll be seeing you," she whispered.
---------------------------------------------------
Doyle peered down through the vast white expanse at Cordelia as she awoke, and he shook his head with a slight smile.
"And that had better not be for a long while, Princess. Live your life."
Finished.
(( Author's Note: Well, that's it. My first fanfiction to be posted on this site. Don't worry, I'll be working on a new story soon. Also, please review. Compliments, flames, constructive critisism; I want it all. I'd like to improve my writing skills as much as possible. My next story will be longer.))