14. Fredless, Part I
"What about the pointy one?" Cordelia posed her question as she leaned at the reception counter, stifling a yawn. She idly scribbled some barely legible notes on the clipboard in front of her.
"Wanna be a little more specific?" Gunn asked, eyeing the pile of pointy weaponry that lay scattered at his feet rather than hanging in its usual place inside the weapons cabinet. He and Wesley had been sifting through the seemingly endless heap of metal for nearly an hour as Cordelia barked unclear instructions at them from across the room. "I got a lotta points over here."
"The one that looks like it was left in the rain too many times." Cordelia clarified, thrusting the eraser-side of her pencil at the object she identified as both pointy and rusty and, therefore, expendable. "With the ugly thing on the handle."
Wesley spotted it first, swiftly hoisting the aged weapon from the middle of the pile. He twisted it back and forth under the light, admiring the intricate pattern-work of the 'ugly thing' Cordelia had used to identify it. "Ah, yes. The Prothgarian broadsword." He held it high, brandishing the weapon for Cordelia's further inspection. "That isn't rust, that's actually the natural bronze finish—quite a remarkable piece."
"Yeah, nifty." Cordelia summarily replied, jotting down something vaguely resembling the name Wesley had given the item. "You can toss it in the donation pile."
"Excuse me?!" Wesley gasped in abject horror. "But, but—it's complete with a third-century ceremonial Sancteus dagger. You wouldn't dare!"
A hand swept into Cordelia's field of vision, depositing a piping hot mug of coffee onto the countertop. It was accompanied by Doyle's amiable voice. "Not that I'm taking sides here—but where exactly do ya plan on donating a thing like that?" He casually leaned beside her as he made the inquiry, his own cup of brew in hand.
"The Salvation Army. Duh." Cordelia replied, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.
Doyle sputtered a bit as he swallowed his hot beverage, trying to keep from spewing it all over the place as he cracked up. Meanwhile, Wesley sputtered for a whole different reason, finding it impossible to fathom how Cordelia could ever let this ancient hunk of metal go, when it was clearly superior to all the other ancient hunks of metal they owned.
Gunn, on the other hand, had no such qualms—he yanked the rust-colored sword out of Wesley's hand and dropped it unceremoniously into a trash bag with a loud clatter. "Next." He demanded. "I'd like to finish this while I'm still pretty."
A small, muffled voice wafted up from somewhere below the front side of the reception counter, giving pause to Wesley's further objections. "What time is it?"
Doyle had to lean forward, his chest balancing across the countertop, in order to see the top of Fred's head. She sat on the floor fussing with a peculiar contraption she'd cobbled together from several other available home appliances. He wasn't sure what the device was supposed to be, but he was reasonably certain it wasn't a toaster.
"Three minutes since the last time you asked." Cordelia responded huffily, doodling two stick-figures and a stick-figure-cat onto the margin of her checklist. She judged her handiwork, wondering how she could add Dennis to the picture; absently she continued speaking. "He'll be back when he's back." She paused then, shuddering as if to shake away the cobwebs. "Am I having déjà vu?"
Popping upward, Fred suddenly appeared in the previously empty space directly in front of the reception counter, causing both Cordelia and Doyle to jolt back in surprise. Doyle managed to do so without spilling a drop of his coffee. Cordelia's hand slipped, leaving a stray pencil mark across her drawing. She scowled with disapproval.
"Sorry!" Fred chirped, flashing them both an apologetic grin as she rested her elbows on the edge of the counter. "I was just curious, I guess. About Angel and the girl with the goofy name. Are they, y'know… like you and Doyle?"
"Well…" Cordelia pursed her lips together as she took a moment to consider the question. "I guess you could say that." She shrugged before continuing her thought. "If you expand the age gap by a couple hundred years, add a few fights to the death—one of which, Buffy won, by the way—and then subtract all the sex, whimsy and the general ability to pass for a normal human couple."
"Like looking in a mirror." Doyle quipped, slinging an arm around Cordy's shoulders and giving her an affectionate squeeze.
"So… do you think she and Angel will get back together?" Fred asked, worrying at her bottom lip. "Just like you guys did?"
"I never say 'never' when true love is involved," Doyle said noncommittally. "But in their case…"
Cordelia let out a loud burst of laughter, interrupting Doyle's relatively diplomatic answer. He removed the arm he'd previously slung around her shoulder and jiggled a finger in his left ear to reduce the ringing.
"When hell freezes over!" Cordelia snorted. "No, wait... Probably not even then."
"But, why not?" Fred wondered, the curiosity in her eyes growing along with their circumference. "Doyle said 'true love.' Shouldn't that be more powerful than normal, every day love—if any love were to conquer all it should be that kind of love. Right?"
"It's rather complicated, Fred." Wesley interjected, lifting another sword from the pile for keener inspection. Gunn was leaning his weight against the side of the weapons cabinet, his arms folded over his chest. He couldn't have looked more bored if he'd tried.
"Let me break it down for you." Cordelia offered, with a flippant wave of her hand. "Their love doesn't just conquer all—it has a tendency to end it. Trust me, the farther they are from each other, the safer we are."
"Not that there's any problem with them being together right now." Doyle hastily added. "I mean… I'm sure they're keeping things very… ah, cordial."
"Just like you guys in Pylea." Fred sighed, a dreamy smile blossoming across her face. "And neither one of you even died or anything."
Doyle gulped audibly as Cordelia slowly lifted her head and the two of them locked eyes uneasily. "We are really, really stupid for letting him go alone, aren't we?"
"He wouldn't." Doyle insisted, the lines in his forehead multiplying by the second. "Right?"
"Wouldn't what?" Angel's voice broke the moment of tension. The vampire strode noiselessly into the lobby with his hands in his pockets, coming to a halt beside the reception area.
"You're back!" Fred exclaimed, clasping her hands together and grinning at maximum capacity.
"And you're not evil?" Cordelia asked, warily eying Angel up and down. "Let me see your pants." She leaned forward, noting that his pants were neither skin tight, nor made of black leather. Her grin broadened to match Fred's. "Nope. Not evil. Welcome back!"
"How'd it go?" Gunn inquired, still leaning against the wooden cabinet. He looked slightly more interested in the conversation now that Angel was a part of it, but not by much.
"I think Cordelia covered the important parts." Angel replied with little humor.
"Hey, man. If ya needa talk about anything—anything at all—I'm here for ya." Doyle reminded his friend, taking a few steps out from behind the reception counter, abandoning his coffee mug in his wake.
"Thanks." Angel responded. "I really don't want to talk about it."
"But you have to tell Doyle—he's your best friend!" Cordelia blurted, as if Angel's reticence to talk was somehow a slight on her. Seeing Doyle's eyes narrow, she quickly covered for her blatant nosiness. "…which is why you can tell him anything and he'd absolutely never share it with another living soul. Not even one that he lives with and also happens to work here."
Now both Angel and Doyle were openly frowning at her for entirely different reasons. Cordelia flashed them one of her signature smiles, the picture of innocence… that all too quickly became a grimace!
The silent alarm bells began to clamor in her head; she blindly reached out, attempting to brace herself against the side of the counter. Less than a second later, her body rocked forward—her nervous center hijacked by the latest message from the Powers That Be.
Through the violent waves of pain, she saw a shop, decorated in pretty pink pastels and creamy beiges. The sweet taste of cream and sugar filled her mouth all too briefly, quickly replaced by the suffocating stench of demon; it smelled like sewer, which was probably its natural habitat. There was screaming—not hers, but she may have been screaming, too. It was hard to tell. She felt a bolt of pain as a victim was hurled across the room, crash-landing inside one of the glass display cases. The glass shattered, slicing and pricking into her skin—the victim's skin, rather. The fear welled up in her chest, making it hard to breathe—
And then it was over.
Cordelia blinked rapidly as she acclimated back to her physical surroundings, leaving the feelings of the would-be victims behind. She discovered right away that she hadn't fell to the floor or face-planted onto the countertop. Instead, she was still fully upright, encircled by two sets of strong and steady arms. Thanks to their supernatural reflexes, Doyle and Angel had both managed to catch her where she stood.
"Are you okay?" Angel asked gently.
"Ice cream." She answered without actually hearing his question—she assumed he'd asked what she saw; that was always the first question.
"Oh." Angel's brow furrowed with bewilderment. He stared over Cordelia's shoulder, addressing the half-demon bracing her from behind. "Does ice cream help with the visions?"
"I tasted it." She said in a clipped tone, reaching up to massage her throbbing temples. It was a gesture she'd seen Doyle perform countless times; now she knew why. "The Haagen Dazs a few blocks from here, with the pink awning and ridiculously long lines—there's some big, stinky sewer-demon hiding in the freezer. It seemed..." She tried to make sense of the jumbled puzzle pieces that had danced through her skull; they didn't all seem to fit together. "Disoriented—like it's not supposed to be there. And it's about to go berserk on a bunch of paying customers!"
It was hard for her to ascertain whether she was confused about the vision because the vision was confusing, or if she was merely not as adept at solving the riddles as Doyle had been. They say practice makes perfect—not that she really wanted a whole lot of practice.
"Doesn't sound good for business." Doyle's voice was low and close to her ear; his hands resting steadfastly on the sides of her waist. She could tell he was trying to remain as calm and soothing as possible, knowing what would come next.
Cordelia felt it then—the urgency building in her chest, like an aftershock of the vision itself. First came the pain and the clues; then came the feeling that she'd burst if they didn't stop this horrible thing from happening. They had to stop it!
"I'm on it." Angel declared, giving Cordelia's shoulder a reassuring pat. He made sure she was securely in Doyle's grip before turning to face the two other men in the room, standing amidst multiple piles of—. "Um… what are you guys doing with all the weapons?"
"Gunn, why don't you go with Angel?" Wesley suggested, ignoring Angel's question and simultaneously releasing Gunn from his purgatory. He shot a furtive glance in Doyle's direction, assuming the half-Brachen would prefer to stay behind with Cordelia rather than play Robin to Angel's Batman.
"Don't gotta ask twice, boss." Gunn said, eagerly snagging his trusty homemade axe from the corner. It was his weapon of choice, despite the more advanced arsenal at his disposal. Axe in hand, Gunn fell into step with Angel as the vampire rounded the reception counter. The two men strode toward the front door like the big, bad-asses they were— and then abruptly came up short.
A bubbly brunette had bounded into their path, wearing an overly exuberant expression. "Me, too!" Fred peeped, all smiles. "Not for the fighting part—but I could help warn the customers. A-and maybe… protect the ice cream?"
Cordelia wasn't sure if she was hearing correctly through the throbbing. She tried to enjoy the sensation of Doyle gently massaging her back, but the pain hadn't receded enough for enjoyment. Was Fred actually volunteering to face a demon? Or did she just want a sundae?
"Uh…" Angel didn't speak right away, his mouth hanging slightly ajar. He shot a quizzical look over his shoulder at Wesley, hoping the other man would deter her.
Which he did in his most diplomatic tone. "Fred, I appreciate your willingness to pitch in, but I don't think it's such a good idea."
"Nah, it's a'right, English." Gunn piped in, with a half-smirk on his face. He, more than anyone, seemed to appreciate Fred's unpredictability. "I'm sure we can take out the big bad beastie and get the lady a sugar cone."
"Oh… well." Wesley cleared his throat and fussed with his glasses. "If you really wish to go—"
"I do!" Fred squealed, pointing toward the various piles of weapons. "Should I…? No, probably not."
"Just stay behind us." Angel deadpanned as he rapidly proceeded to the exit.
"I'll just stay behind you!" Fred reiterated with a nervous giggle. "And protect the ice cream."
Gunn was still grinning at Fred as he hiked his axe over his shoulder and followed in the vampire's footsteps. Once he had passed, Fred about-faced and scampered along behind them.
Their exit left a dull silence hanging over the lobby.
Wesley stood in place, brow furrowed deeply. He didn't approve of Fred going along on the job, but he couldn't very well forbid her from going. Technically, she didn't even work there. He sighed heavily and shifted his attention to the two individuals who were still present and did, in fact, work there.
"Alright, Princess, let's sit ya down, while I grab all the necessary pain relievers and such." Doyle instructed, gently coaxing Cordelia toward the red sofa on the other side of the reception counter. "Aspirin, ice, maybe a little more caffeine—y'know, that's supposed to do wonders for migraines. Or so I've heard; can't say it ever helped me half as much as the whiskey."
Cordelia had been gripping Doyle's shirtsleeve as he helped he shuffle along, but all at once, she caught herself. Unclenching the poly-cotton blend of his shirt, she casually brushed Doyle's helping hands from her body and flashed him a tight smile. "It's only a headache, Doyle. My legs work just fine, thanks."
She proceeded to prove her statement by navigating the rest of the way to the lounger on her own. It was important that she show him she could handle her new duty just as well as he had.
Better even. She could probably do better if she really tried.
And then maybe he'd stop with the sad puppy routine. Sad overbearing puppy, to be exact.
Sinking down into the plush red cushions, Cordelia closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. "See." She murmured more to herself than to the others. "Totally fine."
It was a bit of an overstatement, actually. She wasn't exactly "fine" by anyone's standards. Her legs had felt wobbly as she walked, and even with her lids closed, her eyeballs vibrated with the throbbing in her head. It was a terrible feeling, made even worse by all the turmoil she felt roiling around in her gut. If she'd been less dazed, she would've volunteered to go with Angel, Gunn and Fred to save the victims and destroy the demon firsthand. It's what Doyle probably would have done.
She could definitely do better.
"Maybe it's time to stop playing with Angel's weapons and go back to finding a way to fix this, yeah?" It was Doyle's slightly-raised, guttural voice that summoned Cordelia from her brief moment of self-reflection. Apparently her boyfriend had morphed from sad puppy to rabid bulldog in the span of thirty seconds. "Or should I start interviewing Phalangoid demons to speed up the process?!"
Cordelia reopened her eyes, plastered a false smile onto her lips and let her singsong voice carry across the room to Doyle's waiting ears. "Hey, sweetie… didn't you say something about aspirin?"
Every muscle in Doyle's body tensed as he froze in place. It was probably the word "sweetie" that had gotten to him—she never called him that. At least, not in a sincere way. He slowly turned his attention back to her. "Ah… yeah, coming right up, love." He politely replied, as if he hadn't been growling at Wesley seconds earlier. He hurried off in the direction of the kitchen to procure the aspirin and other anesthetics.
Wesley's mouth opened and closed in Doyle's wake, but no sound came out.
"Don't sweat it, Wes." Cordelia stated, lifting her fingers to her forehead and kneading them into her skull in rhythmic fashion. With Doyle out of the room, she could drop the façade. "He doesn't mean it… I mean, he does, but he wouldn't actually do it… I think."
"Cordelia…" Wesley said her name in a pitying voice that would have grated her nerves if it had been anyone other than Wesley saying it. "Perhaps you should take the rest of the afternoon off?" He was trying to be helpful. "I can finish the inventory on my own—I'll even put everything back, just the way you like it."
"Shhh, keep your voice down." She pleaded, waving her right hand in a downward motion.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry." Wesley replied, dropping his voice into a whisper and stepping closer to where Cordelia sat bracing her heavy head in hand. "Does the noise make it hurt very badly?"
"No, I just don't want Doyle to hear you." She groaned, peeking over at the kitchen doorway to make sure Doyle wouldn't witness her hunched position. "Just give me another minute…"
"It's been over a week, Penny—I thought ya said ya owed me a favor." Doyle complained into the mobile phone he had pressed up against his ear. "I'm looking to cash in A-S-A-P!"
He was alone in the back alley of the Hyperion, pacing like a madman. It was one of the few places where he knew he could conduct a private conversation. Mostly because of its close proximity to the dumpster. He didn't want to leave the hotel premises altogether, not when Cordelia was still inside, looking like she'd been run over by a dump truck. He didn't doubt that she felt like death warmed over—he'd been there enough times to know the feeling. But she was far too proud to admit it, much less go upstairs and rest—no, instead, she insisted on pretending that everything was business as usual.
As if Doyle, of all people, wouldn't know the truth behind her façade.
The others might have fallen for her act. Cordelia was actually a very good actress when she was playing herself. But Doyle knew her better than the others; he knew all her tells, including the ones that meant she was pretending to be something she wasn't. In this case, perfectly normal.
"Ah, well, I appreciate ya considering my physical well-being and all." Doyle continued speaking into the tiny receiver in his palm. "But my neck is my neck and if I'm willing to risk it, I don't see what business that is of yours. If it's about the money, I'll pay up front—"
Doyle whipped around to pace in the opposite direction, and nearly walked straight into the rear exit door of the hotel as it was abruptly flung open. A frantic-looking brunette came barreling outside with no regard to where she was going. Her head wasn't even turned in his direction, which is why she careened directly into him, nearly causing him to drop the phone. "Oomph!"
"Oh!" Fred squeaked as her wide, fearful eyes landed on Doyle.
He managed to keep the phone in his grasp and stabilize both himself and the loose cannon that'd hit him. One of his hands remained on Fred's elbow as his pale eyes locked onto the wide circles of her dark orbs; he quickly absorbed the other pertinent details—namely, the overflowing bags she was loaded down with.
"Just call me when you've got a seat open for me, yeah?" Doyle spoke into the phone, keeping his eyes locked onto the woman he'd caught mid-escape. He hung up on Penny without hearing the other man's answer; he wasn't all that concerned with proper etiquette. "Hey, your folks are in there looking for ya." Doyle said, nodding toward the door that had just closed behind her. "But something tells me y'already know that."
Trish and Roger Burkle had shown up just a little while ago, affording Doyle the distraction he needed to slip out and call Penny. For the few brief minutes he'd met the Burkles, his impression was that they seemed about as normal as parents could be—all-American, apple pie. And very eager to see their daughter after all the years they'd spent thinking the worst. It was a letter from Fred that had brought them to L.A.—a letter without a return address. Translation: Fred had wanted them to know she was alive and well, but didn't want to actually see them. Clearly, that was still the case.
"I-I know." Fred stammered, looking apprehensively at the closed door Doyle had indicated. "It was nice of them to come… too bad I was just on my way out."
Doyle didn't move out of Fred's way, forcing her to step back, closer to the door she so clearly wanted to get far away from. "Just taking a casual stroll with all your earthly belongings? Wanna tell me what this is about?"
"Not really." She answered plainly, anxiously squirming in place, anticipating her escape. "Why don't you just let me go and pretend this never happened? A-and you'll never have to worry about me blabbing to Cordy about the suspicious phone call I just overheard."
A dry chuckle escaped Doyle's lips and he raised his brows. "Resorting to blackmail, huh? This is a lot more serious than I thought. Guess I'll have to accept your terms, darlin'. Though, I can assure ya—I only made that call for Cordy's sake."
"Sure, I get it." Fred replied, adjusting the shoulder strap of her bag. "You're searching for a way to get your visions back. You're just hiding in the alley, because… um, why are you hiding in the alley?" She waved a hand under her nose. "It stinks."
"'Cause Cordy doesn't like it when I dabble in the whole underworld thing—I know it's hard to believe by looking at me, but I wasn't always the upstanding citizen I am today." Doyle admitted, shoving his mobile phone in his jacket pocket. "There was some trouble a few years back, owing money to the wrong people and such. Let's just say, if it hadn't been for Angel's timely intervention, I probably would be down a few appendages. Not to mention, one neck."
"Oh. Wow." Fred said, looking genuinely surprised by this revelation. "No wonder Cordelia wouldn't approve—pretty sure she likes all your limbs where they are. And your neck."
Doyle nodded. "But, her life is more important than my limbs."
"It's kinda romantic when you put it like that." Fred decided, swaying a little as thoughts of dashing to freedom still danced through her head.
"What's say we go back inside and work on solving your problem, yeah?" Doyle suggested, flashing the dimple for good measure. "Mine'll keep 'til tomorrow."
She stumbled backward as he reached out for her arm, and her eyes once again reverted to 'frightened deer' status. "I-I cant." She emphasized, shaking her head back and forth insistently. "I can't see them. They can't see me."
"Yeah, okay." He said gently, holding up his hands in surrender and giving a slight nod to the mouth of the alley over his shoulder. "Let's you and me go somewhere else then."
"Somewhere else is good." She agreed, stepping forward without hesitation, and urging him to do the same. "I like somewhere else. Is it a specific-somewhere or an anywhere-somewhere?"
"Oh, there's a specific somewhere." He assured her as they both made their way to the sidewalk beyond the alley. "Specifically—somewhere we can both gain a little perspective."