Rooftop Diving

Chapter Four

Never ride in the head funeral car, her mother used to say. When grandparents or siblings departed, Cordy's parents would take on the look of prisoners being led to the gallows. They'd shuffle off to the waiting shiny black vehicle, always forcing her to ride a few cars back, usually with an over-perfumed aunt. Cordelia never understood the reason she wasn't allowed to sit with her folks on a day when parental comport might be warranted. Now she knew.

Like a pack of immediate family huddling in mournful silence, the trio drove through a rising fog. Cordelia sat back, trying not to label the mist 'ominous.' That was no way to start. Instead, she focused on body position, making sure her shoulder subtly rested against a deadly quiet Irishman. Having prearranged the details with Angel on their way to the airport, she knew he'd be dropping her off first. She'd figured if they'd somehow convinced Doyle to abandon his escape plan, getting him to come home with her should be relatively easier. 'Should be' rarely equated to fact.

When Angel stopped at her curb, Cordy exited the caddy, holding the car door open in invitation. Reluctant in else everything lately, this crucial moment was no different. Fight or flight didn't quite cover it as Doyle looked like he was wishing hard to blend into the caddy's upholstery. Her heart rhythm faltered as the Irishman seemed to consider refusing her and she pondered why she never traveled with a crane. But her pulse restarted at a sprint when he grabbed his bag and followed her out of the vehicle. The fact that the decision came with a sigh did little to dampen her enthusiasm to play hostess. With a dismissive wave to their boss, Cordy thrust the key in the lock and turned.

Inside, phantom Dennis had switched on a few lights, keeping the glow muted and warm. The ghost truly had the touch of an interior designer. Her place was a study in controlled disarray, an old habit from her trashy apartment days. Finally having a nice home didn't guarantee magazine quality rooms. But it hadn't reached critical mass and she couldn't have cared if it had. The company wasn't likely to mind. The company who hadn't spoken since the airport and would possibly bolt before she figured out how to get him talking. Not her strong suit, this Dr. Phil stuff. Plus, the bald look was so not flattering.

Doyle set his backpack on the floor beside the sofa as Cordy scuttled off to the kitchen. He'd need a bit of reviving coffee after the multiple shots at the bar. And the caffeine would keep any of her stray yawns at bay until after they'd had a chance to 'open up.' Which she prayed they would because silence did little to advance romance. Something told her the prying tactic would be the most used tool in her arsenal. Fortunately, a strategically placed hair flip usually got mouths to gap, and hopefully actual words would follow. Shrugging off his jacket, she laid it tenderly across a kitchen chair.

Preparing two emergency espressos, Cordy was about to return to the living room with her tray of wakefulness when Dennis's form protruded from the dry wall. Seldom used, this means of communication was usually reserved for the most important messages. The specter put a phantom finger to phantom lips. Shifting into 'spy mode, Cordelia entered the darkened room to find Doyle on the couch, elbows on knees and head in hands. Did he have another vision or was this a manifestation of an excessively long day? Depositing the tray on the end table with stealth Martha Stewart would choke over, Cordy sat beside him and slid an arm across his shoulders.

"You still with me?" There was a concerted effort to keep the concern out of her whisper.

He raised his head, but not his gaze. "Just tired."

"Running away is tiring work, no offense." Flashing him a radiant smile, Cordy turned to the table. "But never fear. I have super strong esophagus-eroding coffee."

Doyle accepted the proffered cup with a good measure of hesitance. And suddenly it felt like any other day because she wanted to smack him. What was it with these guys and their mockery? She passed home ec with a solid C.

"I'll have you know this was made by a very expensive appliance. Gotten at reduced cost, mind you. Sure the manual came in only Chinese, but one button operation means even I can't screw it up." Rambling wasn't just a verb, it was a state of mind.

A smile graced his features and the first sip went down without complaint. But he returned the cup to the tray and that urge to smack him returned with blaring sirens. Had it been alcohol, she'd have had to wrench the liquid from his hand, possibly by amputation. Trying the brew herself, the smooth bitterness flowed past her throat most satisfyingly. Well worth the money, that machine. It relaxed her enough to attempt putting petrified cards on the proverbial table.

"I was hoping you'd stay here." At the look he shot her, she hurriedly added, "if you want. Tonight. With me."

"Why?"

It was less a question than a dare. This was made clear by the piercing stare usually only accomplished by an enraged Angel. Clearly he wanted to make her explain it, maybe to see if she'd truly thought this out. Had she? Um… Keeping her eyes glued to the remaining brown liquid in her tiny cup, Cordy prepared to voice the day's musings in what she hoped was a convincing, mature way.

"I know you think this is all a little sudden. Like on the roof last night. Thing is, I've been watching you. Been doing it for a while actually." She paused, daring to look at him before clarifying. "Ever since that vision, I've been thinking that maybe I could know you better. And by better, I mean as future date material. Anyway, I think it really started the night before Harry. You know, when you saved me from that mullet-haired vampire?"

Doyle nodded. "I remember."

"See, old money and new stuff is supposed to make me happy. That night I had both in front of me and it just annoyed me. Only I didn't want it anymore. I was completely irritated with myself, cuz if I didn't want that, what the hell did I want? Then the vampire attacked and Mr. Armani ran away like a girl on fire. And then you showed up." Taking a deep breath, she prayed they were ready for this. "And standing next to Mr. Blue Boxes in my head, you looked like exactly what I should be chasing. If I chased, that is. Of course, I stuffed that realization down under impressively snarky comments." Cordy bumped her shoulder to his. "I'm good at the whole 'snarks are oxygen' thing, you know?"

His forgotten cup was picked back up in an obvious stall for time and he put effort into his slow drain of the espresso. "Your 'stuffing' ability is even more impressive. Cuz ye coulda fooled me."

Ouch, band-aid anyone? "Except it never went away. And last night it came up like an explosion from the hellmouth. And don't tell me you didn't feel any different when we kissed." He bit his lip and she plowed on. "So the thing is, now when I look at you, I see a future. And I want that."

"Ye want somet'ing I can't give." The statement was a condemnation of her hopes. He was so averse to every step forward she tried to take and she didn't know how to combat such abject unwillingness other than strong armed shoving.

"Because of the PTB? Or is there more?"

When he hung his head, the room seemed to darken. Cordy wanted to ask Dennis to crank up the recessed lighting, maybe stoke a fire. But her eyes were too busy trying to burn through the man beside her. "I used to think maybe," he began but wherever he was going dead-ended.

"What did you used to think?"

He rose from the sofa, stopping at the fog-kissed bay window to lean on the frame. Cordy watched from her seat, afraid that approaching him would ensure he didn't talk. And she so needed to understand what went on in his head that giving him space seemed the only alternative.

"How can ye say any of this when ye don' know me?"

"How can I know you when you won't let me? When you keep so many secrets? You know, this is America, land of trust. So be patriotic and trust someone already. I'm asking for it to be me."

His eyes dropped to the floor. "If ye knew…Ye'd wish I'd gotten on that plane."

Bolting to her feet, Cordelia forced herself to maintain the distance he'd put between them. "Not possible. Let me prove you wrong."

"I can't."

If it's a fight he wants, Queen C can deliver and snark oxygen began flowing into her lungs. "Because you're gonna leave anyway, right? Maybe before dawn. Or maybe you'll do us a big huge favor and give it a few days. And then you'll be back at the airport bar itching to board a flight to someplace where trust is a bad word."

Failing to bite, Doyle presented the face of an adult to match her petulance. "I'll do what's best for everyone."

A V-8 forehead smack hurt her hand as well as her head, but she pressed on. "How can your leaving accomplish that? Sure as hellmouth isn't best for us!"

Frustration crept into his voice. "There is no us, Cordy."

Direct hit. "Doesn't mean there can't be. Eventually. But if you won't try, then there's no harm in telling me." She forced her hands to unclench. "You really want me to let you go? Give me a reason."

Aware that the challenge could push him over the edge, she could only school her emotions, preparing them for whatever he might say. The atmosphere shifted into a further darkness and she knew he'd just accepted the challenge. And it scared her.

"Ye forget that I know ye, Cordelia." His eyes bore into her, making her squirm just a bit. "What ye want is a normal life. And ye can' have that with me."

"I want a life with you in it. Normal or otherwise." She insisted. "You acted like you wanted a chance and me handing it to you isn't doing anything for you?"

Stalking to her, Doyle's gaze intensified and she had to resist taking a step back. "What if I was a mass murderer? What if I wasn't… human?"

His stance and his tone were meant to intimidate her. And it was working. "But those things aren't true."

"Would it matter if they were?" He pressed.

"No," She spoke firmly, trying to force her certainty through his doubts.

"Ye sure about that?"

And for a split second, a well known face altered into something entirely different.