"First Impressions," Part II
The front door to Cordelia's apartment flew open well before Cordelia had so much as reached into her purse, to find her keys.
"Thanks, Dennis." She called into the air, as she crossed the threshold and immediately kicked off her shoes. "I don't know about Gunn." She remarked to the weary man who'd entered behind her, closing the door securely in his wake. "He's a little too Rambo to be a team player, don't you think?"
"Give him time, love." Doyle said, yanking off his beat up leather jacket and tossing it lazily on the doorknob of the coat closet. "He's just used to being in charge, that's all—doing things his own way is the only way he knows."
"Well, his way seems to get a lot of people killed." Cordelia snorted, trudging her way across the carpet to throw herself exhaustedly down on the couch cushions. "It doesn't even seem like it bothers him."
"It bothers him." Doyle assured her, as he moved at a much slower pace. "He wouldn't be asking for Angel's help if it didn't. When you're fighting a war, soldiers die. He's hadda learn that the hard way. Hence, the uh… winning personality."
He rubbed at his aching shoulder that had been twisted during the night's melee. Cordelia saw his grimace and patted the cushion beside her on the couch. "Looks like someone's in need of some TLC. Good thing that's my specialty."
"Not gonna disagree with ya there." He responded, making his way across the room and readily plopping down on the couch beside her, turning so she had full access to his back and shoulders. She began digging her fingers into his tense flesh, kneading out the knots that had already formed. "Ah… I dunno what I'd do without those magic fingers of yours, darlin'."
"That one vamp really got you good, huh?" She noted, as she continued applying pressure to his aching muscles. "You know what you should have done?"
"Ducked." He grunted, as she dug her knuckles in extra deep along his spinal column.
"You should've used the demon, Doyle." She admonished him lightly. "You wouldn't be in pain right now if you'd had your super-bendy joints during the fight. And, considering what a poor showing Angel put in tonight, you probably could've saved the other guys a few bruises as well."
Doyle closed his eyes and hung his head, trying to enjoy the massage without reflecting on how close they'd come to losing to a relatively small group of vampires that should've been fairly easy work. Nor did he wish to get into yet another heated discussion about his preference to remain human, no matter the situation. Cordelia was well-versed in how much he disliked calling on the demon; what she didn't know is how much closer to the surface it felt as of late.
He focused on the last part of her sentence, the part that felt safer because it took the focus off him. "Angel did seem a bit off his game, yeah?"
"Understatement much?" She huffed, putting some of her obvious frustration into the massage. "I mean, he slept the entire day, which maybe wouldn't be so weird if we had worked last night, but we didn't. Is he sick? Do vampires get sick? Because, something's not right if he willingly lent us his car."
"I don't think he's sick." Doyle responded, as a sinking feeling came over him. This topic, he had quickly realized, wasn't any safer.
"Oh no! I just thought of something!" She exclaimed worriedly. "Last time he had trouble sleeping, that Penn guy was sharing dreams with him. Remember? You don't think another one of his vampire children have come to play, do you? What if it's Spike?"
Doyle's back was still turned away from her, so she couldn't see his expression, which was one of quiet awe. Without knowing it, Cordelia had very nearly hit the nail on the head—she saw what Doyle surely wouldn't have seen if he hadn't already been looking for it. "Well, ah… didn't ya say something about Spike being in Sunnydale these days?" He hedged, trying to redirect her train of thought, while he wrestled with the desire to confess all his fears to her about what was to come.
"Yeah, last I checked." Cordelia replied thoughtfully. "Maybe I should call Willow again. Just to make sure Captain Peroxide hasn't taken any road trips lately."
"Mmm… That sounds like a good idea." Doyle said, patting her hand as it continued to dig into the taut muscles of his shoulder.
She went silent for a few moments as she continued to massage away all the tension in his upper back. Eventually, he felt the warmth of her lips as they landed on the side of his neck, signaling the end of her laboring over his muscles. Her arms slid from his shoulders downward across his chest, hugging him from behind. Then, she lifted her chin, planting it snugly on his shoulder blade and spoke quietly next to his ear. "What's wrong?"
"Huh? What d'ya mean?" He asked.
Doyle didn't know how he could be surprised by her perceptiveness at this point. Although, she often masked it with superficiality, Cordelia was by far the most insightful person he knew. And she was particularly adept at seeing right through him—she always knew when he was holding something back from her, which is why he usually didn't even try.
"I can tell you're worried about something—this kind of muscle tension isn't just from fighting demons and moving boxes. It's the kind that you cause yourself." She observed keenly.
"That's what gave me away?" He let out a wry chuckle, finally twisting out of her backwards hug so he could sink properly into the couch cushions. She released him so he could move, but remained close, attached to his hip.
Cordelia reached out and brushed a fingertip lightly across his forehead. "That… and this vein right here that pops out whenever you're in worry-mode." She leaned over and kissed the spot in question, giving him a playful smile. "I hope this isn't your poker face. It would explain a lot."
"Have I ever told ya what a great card player you'd make, love?" He joked in reply, taking her hand in his, and raising it to his lips to place a kiss in the middle of her palm. "You're right, there's something weighing heavy at the moment."
She settled against his side to listen, entwining her fingers between his. A pillar of support. "Notice my complete lack of surprise." She jibed him with affection.
"It's just… ah, well, it seems like some things from my vision of the future are starting to make sense now. More than just a few names here and there." He explained, shifting anxiously against the couch cushions. "I might have some tough choices to make real soon."
"You have to figure out how to change things." She guessed. "Assuming they don't change on their own—some things are bound to be different just because you're here, right? Look at me, for instance. I must be different, since I ended up with you instead of a rich guy."
Doyle's lips quirked into a smile as he nodded in agreement, lifting a hand to her cheek tenderly. The Cordelia he'd seen in his vision of the future did appear somewhat different from the one seated beside him—not better, or worse, just different. Maybe he was biased, but he liked this Cordelia better, due to the simple fact that she was his. Although, he had no doubt he would've loved any version of her in any timeline.
"Yeah, I suppose some things change naturally." He dropped his hand and his eyes followed, searching the floor beneath his feet. "To be honest, that's part of what worries me. There are things my being here shouldn't change. And I'm afraid not changing things will be a lot harder than actually changing 'em."
"What's so hard about that?" Cordelia wondered. "Hide behind your newspaper for a while—marvel at all the things that don't change. You already have a lot of practice doing that."
Under most circumstances, Doyle would have gladly chuckled at her joke at his expense. But, he was in no laughing mood at the moment. His eyes remained averted as he answered her question as ambiguously as possible. "Well, let's just say some of 'em are questionable."
"Questionable means bad." Cordelia interpreted bluntly. "Why would you let bad things happen?"
"Because, darlin', I don't wanna change the good that could come out of the bad." He answered emphatically. "Pretty sure it's an all or nothing type o' deal."
She eyed him thoughtfully before pointing out what she must have thought was quite obvious. "Maybe stopping the bad things would lead to different good things. Better things even. Not to mention the fact that no one would know anything was missing in the first place. It wouldn't even matter."
"I'd know." Doyle's words were laced with earnestness. "It'd matter to me. And I dunno if I could live with ruining it."
"Oh." She said, taken aback by his intense reply. "It's that good, huh?"
"Miraculous." He clarified, running an anxious hand through his hair. "That'd be a more accurate description."
Doyle looked up at her then and found a vaguely puzzled expression staring back at him, which was fair considering how vague and puzzling his description of possible events was even to his own ears.
"Miraculous sounds really good." She ventured with a small shrug. "I mean, how bad is 'bad' anyway? Are we talking a little bad, or your garden-variety medium bad? It can't be worse than that, if you're willing to let it happen. No one's gonna die, right?"
"Lord, I hope not." Doyle mumbled reflexively, more to himself than her.
"Good." Cordelia responded with a hint of relief in her voice. "Because you can't let anyone die."
"I'm not planning on it, but ya realize the instructions are vague at best." Doyle admitted in a slightly weary voice. "Whether I choose to act or sit idly by, either way, whatever happens will be on me. That's what seeing the future means—y'think I'd be used to it by now..."
"Hey, it's okay." She said soothingly, moving closer to him, so she could slip her arms around his chest and hug him close once again. "It's like I've told you before—you're good at your job, Doyle. That's why the Powers That Be and the other-me gave you this responsibility. Because they knew you could handle it. They trust that you'll do the right thing—we all do."
Doyle lifted his hands to rub at his tired eyes, wishing he could have nearly as much faith in himself as she did. It was her faith that had kept him going this long—and it would continue to push him along the long and twisted path. "Well, you and Angel do, at any rate. Wesley still thinks I hold secret meetings with the higher powers just so I can lord it over his head that I know things he doesn't."
"You do enjoy lording things over Wesley." She joked quietly, her voice slightly distorted by the folds of his shirt close to her mouth. She shifted suddenly and moved backward so she could meet his eyes, ensuring she had his undivided attention. It also allowed him to see the sincerity etched across her face. "I know it's a burden, Doyle, but it doesn't have to be something you carry alone, I don't mind sharing it. You can tell me everything, if you want to—if it would help."
And just like that, she gave him strength, as she so often did. As he stared back at her face, so open and honest, he could see that she meant it. These weren't just thoughts that became words—she was willing to act on them. It was tempting to take her up on the offer, and yet, sharing the burden with her, wouldn't exactly absolve him of any responsibility. If anything, it would only serve to increase it. The future was fragile—one wrong move, by any one of them could cost them everything. He trusted her, implicitly, but the weight of the future was never meant to be hers. It was never meant to be Angel's either. It was Doyle's, and Doyle's alone—for better or for worse. The Oracles had said as much, and Doyle understood why it had to be that way. Because Doyle himself had no future to be overwritten—he had no horse in the race. He could focus on the one future that mattered—Angel's future—and weed out all the rest. That is why Doyle was chosen for the job, and that is why he had to do it alone.
Well, not entirely alone. Even if Cordelia couldn't share the burden of knowledge, she could still help him bear it.
He lifted his hands to cup her lovely face, taking in the smooth, flawless beauty of her skin, the wide curve of her mouth and deep, dark pools of her eyes. His thumbs lightly caressed her cheeks as he spoke to her, overcome by the feelings she could stir up in him so easily, by saying so very little. "God, Cordy, I love you so damn much. Y'know that?"
She smiled back at him, leaning closer so that the tips of their noses connected. "I love you, too." She answered without hesitation. Words that had once been so difficult for her to say, now easily fell from her lips on a regular basis. And she meant them each and every time.
What followed was a long, sweet kiss that echoed the words they'd just spoken out loud. A tender urgency laced the kiss, as if each of them was equally desperate to let the other one know how much they meant to the other. Doyle's hands slid from her cheeks into her hair, and Cordelia's arms wound their way around his neck. Their hearts beat rapidly, falling into a matching rhythm, leading them further down the tunnel of desire they so often found themselves tumbling into.
Theirs was a very physical relationship, to be sure. The chemistry between them was combustible, and at times, it was hard to keep their hands to themselves. But it wasn't strictly the sparks that kept them coming back for more. They had frolicked playfully around the Hyperion earlier that afternoon for pleasure. What was happening now had very little to do with pleasure—this was raw emotion, spilling over, being poured into flesh. And it was much more intoxicating than what had transpired earlier. Much more fulfilling.
Doyle was fully wrapped up in her—the feel of her tongue in his mouth, her nails grazing his skin, her perfumed hair billowing around them. That's when he felt it. The silent alarm bell in his head that told him what was about to happen. He wrenched away from her almost violently, holding her at arm's length and bracing himself for impact. He was barely aware of the noise of objection she made as their contact was broken, because a vision slammed into him with all the gentleness of a Mack truck.
One picture after the next, each one crash-landing into his brain violently. What was worse—he recognized the man in the vision. He watched the guy be ripped apart limb from limb. He felt the pain, both inside and out. As the vision slowly subsided, Doyle let his body go slack and found that he was laying curled up on his side in Cordelia's lap. She had managed to keep him from rolling off the couch, and as he got his bearings he took another moment to simply lie there with his eyes clenched tightly shut, letting her fingers gently glide through his hair. "Shhhhh, it's okay." She whispered. "You're okay… The Powers That Be? Not so much. I'm definitely going to have to file a complaint about their epicly lousy timing."
He lifted a hand to his cheek to wipe away a stream of wetness—apparently, this vision had come with tears, which were spilling down his cheeks in thick rivulets. It wasn't the first time. He had no control over any reaction he had to a vision. For a few seconds, minutes, and on one occasion, hours, he experienced a complete loss of reality; and in its place was only pain in its purest, most undiluted form.
This time the pain had belonged to one, Charles Gunn.
Doyle sat up slowly, wiping his eyes with the balls of his hands and then running them through his hair. Cordelia kept a hand lightly on his shoulder, cocking her head at him with concern. "What did you see?" She wondered. That line was usually reserved for Angel, when he was around to utter it.
"It's Gunn." Doyle choked, trying to regain his composure, but having a little trouble considering the level of violence he'd just experienced. "It's bad."
"Oh, wow. Okay." Cordelia popped up off the couch and grabbed the phone from her countertop, dialing rapidly. She paced the floor, her clothes in disarray—some of them on the floor, where they'd been thrown only moments earlier. She cheated nervous glances at Doyle who was sitting partly hunched over on the couch, massaging the tension out of his head.
"Angel's not answering!" She announced with frustration.
"Try Wes." Doyle directed, pulling himself gingerly off of the couch, shaking the rest of the cobwebs out of his head and adjusting his own clothing. Once he had done so, he lurched forward to reclaim his jacket hanging on the doorknob nearby. "We don't have a lot o' time."
A few moments later, Cordelia was chattering into what was clearly Wesley's answering machine. "Wesley, where are you? Doyle had a vision—it's Gunn. He's in trouble! And I can't get Angel. When you get this message, find him and come meet us. Doyle and I are going to save Gunn!"
She hung up the phone and leveled Doyle with a nervous look. "We have to go, right? We can't wait for them."
"We really can't." Doyle reluctantly confirmed. "Grab yourself a weapon, darlin'. I have a feeling you're gonna need it this time."