Written for the What If Ficathon.

Your Assignment:

Name: Lynn
Email:

What "what if. . .?" question would you like answered: What if Angel had died in "Hero" instead of Doyle?
Pairings (or none): Doyle/Cordelia (either romance or friendship)
1-2 Requests: Either Doyle or Cordelia being intoxicated; a visit to the Oracles.
1-2 Restrictions: No miraculous "get out of death free yet again" card for Angel; Angel Investigations must continue in one way or another.
Maximum Rating: R

"No."

The dark haired, blue eyed Irishman stormed up and down the small room, paying no attention to the whirling colors that changed at the Oracles' whims.

"Your champion is dead. For a cause not his own! How can you justify his death?" he shouted at the glimmering man and woman that stood before him.

"How can we not? He did exactly what he was supposed to do…he saved innocents. And in the end, redeemed himself. He received his reward," the female said gently, as she recognized and understood the pain evident in the mortal's face. His demon visage would appear and disappear, the emotions the man was fighting controlling his physical self.

"Reward? Sweetheart, you do realize he's dead? What kind of reward is that?"

"He was allowed to ascend," the male said haughtily, looking at his sister Oracle, the expression on his face one of impatience.

"Ascend? D'you mean-" the Irishman stopped, and looked upward.

"That we cannot tell you. But rest assured that your friend has not died in vain. He will be loved and missed by many, and is assured of his redemption for his selfless act. Do not worry for him," the female answered.

The mortal sighed, and dropped his head, his stomach burning from the swallowed rage and sorrow he had tried to hold in check.

"Go now, Allan Francis Doyle, and celebrate the life of your friend, the vampire Angel," the Oracle added, and suddenly he was not there in the bright room; instead, he was in the dank pits under the post office, and Angel was still dead.

What in the bloody hell was he going to tell Cordelia?

Cordelia Chase was tired of crying.

She hated the way it made her face look, and hated the stuffiness in her nose. Worst of all, she hated the reason for her crying.

"He's actually gone," she whispered for what seemed like the thousandth time.

"He's gone, and what are we gonna do now?"

A noise at the door interrupted her morbid thoughts, and she jumped up, the small battle axe in her hand held at the ready. She dropped it when she saw who it was coming in.

"Well?" she asked him, and Doyle winced inwardly at the look of hope in her eyes.

"Well, darlin'," he began, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't make her angry at him. He could tell she had been crying, and that made him feel almost as bad as losing Angel had.

"They didn't go for it, did they?" she said in a little girl voice, small and broken. Doyle started slightly, the tone in her voice not one he had ever heard from the proud, outgoing woman in front of him. She slumped back down to the love seat she had been perched on before Doyle had returned, a defeated look on her face.

He squatted next to her, and risked taking her hands in his. She didn't pull away.

"Cordy, I tried, darlin. I did. They told me that Angel's 'selfless act' had been his redemption, and he should not be mourned."

She shook her head, the tears coming again. How was this fair? Angel had done nothing but good for others…well, aside from that Angelus incident…since coming here. And Cordy needed him, damn it!

"Doyle, what are we gonna do? I'm good for exactly two things: international superstardom, or helping a vampire with a soul rid the world of evil. That makes for a short, yet colorful resume, right?" she said, desperation in her voice, and the small smile on her lips not quite reaching her eyes.

"We'll soldier on, Cordelia. Angel investigations is still very much in business, and there's you an' me right? Yeah, we can do this!" he told her, as much to rally himself as Cordy.

Standing, he pulled her to her feet, and slung an arm around her shoulders. She surprised him by clinging to him slightly. Either the loss of Angel was really affecting her, or she was actually coming to like him. He thought back on their conversation on the ship, right before Angel had shown up on the motorcycle. Had she actually said she would have dinner with him? Time to test that theory.

"Let's go have that dinner," he said, and she nodded. "I think that would be great. But let me get my sunglasses…I don't wanna go anywhere looking puffy- especially when I'm also out with you."

"Hey!" he protested, and she laughed at him, a bit of color coming back into her face. He would let her make fun of him all night if she would look at him like that again.

Chez Anthony was not a place he could normally afford, but he figured she deserved it, and he wanted to make her forget the sorrow they had experienced the few days before.

He ordered an expensive whiskey, and she raised her eyebrow at him.

"For the toast," he said, and she made a little 'ah ha' face.

When the food came, they were already three sheets to the wind, and having a grand old time, Cordy regaling him with a few stories of Angel from his Sunnydale days.

"…and he didn't know what the lobster bib was for! He thought it was a funny dinner napkin!" she guffawed, lost in her memories. Doyle smiled, glad to see her laughing. Truth was, the Irishman was a tad worried about his own role now. Was he done? Was his debt to the Powers paid in full? He guessed he wouldn't know til the next head splitting, mind numbing vision hit him.

Suddenly Cordelia sobered up. "Oh god, Doyle, I just thought of something. Should I call Buffy?"

Doyle thought for a moment, not really sure how to answer that. He had only met the petite slayer once, and that once was enough to feel the tension and soul baring love that she and Angel had for each other. He hoped to God this wouldn't hit her too hard, but he had a feeling that was too much to ask for.

"As much as I hate to say it, Cord, I think you might wanna. Although I think she might already know," he told Cordelia, and she pulled a face.

"How would she- oh, wait. You mean that whole 'lost love soul bound' connection thingie they have, don't you? Man, she is gonna hit the roof. I can't believe she hasn't called yet," the brunette answered, then frowned. "Why hasn't she called? I thought she lovvvvvvved him," she said, slurring the word. Doyle, feeling a bit more than tipsy himself, knew she had to be more than buzzed.

He knew he was right when her face crumpled, and she began to cry in earnest, tears running down her porcelain face like rain on a crystal window. It made his heart squeeze, and he leaned forward, grasping her hand.

"Cord, don't do this. Please. We can do this, we can! I promise you we can, love."

"I don't know, Doyle! It took a lot for me to come out here on my own, and trust me, the first few months were no picnic!" she told him, her honesty the result of slightly too much whiskey. But he would take it any way he could get it, and he let her ramble on.

"But then I found Angel, and suddenly I knew what I had to do! I wasn't exactly the nicest person in high school, you know? Maybe, just maybe, I could be of real help to someone, like, I could really matter, you know?"

Doyle nodded. Boy, did he ever know.

He let go of her hands, and poured them each a tot of whiskey, handing her her shot glass back. She made a face, and waved her hand at him, but he said "let's toast," and she picked up her glass.

"To Angel," he started, "may his memory never dull. And may we aspire to be as noble in deed as he ever was," Doyle said, and tossed back his drink.

"Amen," Cordelia said loudly, and drained her glass as well.

Doyle was groaning and pressing a package of frozen peas to his forehead when Cordelia stumbled into the office the next morning.

"Coffee?" she pleaded, setting her purse down with a loud thunk. Doyle hissed, then pointed at the machine.

"Thank god," she muttered, and poured herself a generous helping of the stuff.

Rounding the corner of her desk, she stared at him through her dark glasses, and tapped her foot impatiently.

"Cord, darlin, how much would it take for you not to make that noise?" he asked, squeezing his eyes shut. It felt like the world's largest mouse band was playing "76 Trombones" in his head, and they were gearing up for an encore.

"Get out from behind my desk, Doyle. We have work to do," she snapped, then pushed him out of the way. He levered himself off her chair, then dropped like a stone onto the floor.

"Oh, my God! You cannot hold your liquor, can you?" she said, rolling her eyes. She didn't mention the fact that she was two hours late, and had kept her sunglasses on inside the dark office.

Doyle was rolling on the ground, making a choking noise, and rubbing his temples with his fingers. The bag of peas was half under his elbow, and he flailed on to them, bursting the sack open, green frozen pellets flying everywhere.

"Doyle, for God's sake! You can't feel that bad…" Cordelia spit, then got up to help him, stepping decorously over the little vegetable bombs rolling on the concrete.

She squatted down, about to berate him further, but he ceased flailing, and opened his eyes.

"120 Fairfax. It's an apartment…and there's a little girl, she's gotten into some of her mother's things…oh, this is not good."

"What is it?" Cordy asked, already writing down the address.

"Her mother's a demon…and not the fuzzy kind that rewards kids when they screw up," the Irishman said, sitting up, rubbing the back of his neck.

Cordy nodded, writing the rest of the description down as he gave it to her.

"Well?" she said when he finished, and failed to get up from the floor.

"Well what, love?" he said, twisting his neck, trying to pop it, hoping that might help the pounding in his forehead.

"Let's go! She needs our help!"

She was already striding into Angel's empty office, grabbing the first few weapons she came to.

He stood as she returned, and accepted the short sword she handed him.

"But, Cordy…" he trailed off at the look in her eyes.

"No buts, Doyle. There are people out there who need us, and we're going to help them as long as we can. Period. He would want us to."

Doyle nodded, and felt a surge of pride that the Powers still trusted his little worthless self enough to send him the visions. He would do everything he could to prove himself worthy of that trust.

"He would. So let's go," he answered, and she grabbed up her purse, throwing the keys to Angel's boat of a Plymouth to him.

They hustled out together into the sunshine, two people unsure of their futures just the night before.

In the light of the bright Los Angeles day, however, things were looking a little more certain.

Angel Investigations wasn't going anywhere.

Fin.