"Eternity," Part I
"Could ya quit complainin' for five minutes and just tell her the things ya liked about the play?" Doyle begged his two reluctant companions. "As a favor to me, if nothing else."
Doyle, along with Angel and Wesley, stood patiently outside the stage door, waiting for Cordelia to change out of her costume and exit. It had been her first live performance and she'd been terribly nervous. Doyle had done all he could to keep her nervous energy from infecting him over the past several weeks—but, he had to admit, he had been a wreck. He felt as if he was the one going out on that stage instead of her.
Seeing the performance did little to unravel his nerves—in fact, watching her up there, had given him dry mouth.
By all accounts, the play had been a terribly directed, terribly acted adaptation of Henrik Ibsen's A Doll's House. And Cordelia was fairly terrible in it, forgetting a large quantity of her lines, and doing little in the way of playing it off. That wasn't surprising, since Doyle had helped her run lines on more than one occasion; being off-book wasn't exactly her strong suit. Faulty line-reading aside, Doyle decided Cordelia still had something that made her stand out. Something that made it impossible for him to take his eyes off her no matter what else was going on. She may never win Oscars or Emmys or even a Community Theater Participation Award, but she was a star in his book, and he was damn proud that she could get up there and do a thing like that in front of a crowd… okay, maybe not a crowd, exactly, but there were a handful of others in the theater aside from he, Angel and Wesley.
"Was that really only two hours, because it felt… longer." Angel said, looking as if he'd have gladly chosen physical torture over the experience he just sat through.
"Okay, so… ya were so entranced by her performance that time stood still. Go with that." Doyle amended, giving Angel a warning look. "And you, Wesley, what've you got?"
Wesley shrugged haplessly. "Well… um… her projection was excellent."
Doyle shook his head unhappily. He supposed being in love with her made her performance sparkle in a way that it didn't for other people who were not in love with her. But, still… "One of you should tell 'er, it was an unforgettable performance, yeah? I'm sure that much is true."
"That one's mine." Angel volunteered, silently warning Wesley not to fight him on the point.
The door swung open and out stepped Cordelia wearing one of her brightest smiles. Doyle quickly handed her the bouquet of flowers he'd brought, making sure his grin was as wide and bright as her own. "There she is. The star of the show!"
Cordelia took the flowers and brought them to her nose appreciatively. "Look at me. Lead actress in a play, with a boyfriend who brings flowers to the stage door." Doyle could see she was genuinely touched by the gesture; now if his companions could only manage to lie through their teeth about the quality of her performance, he'd be going home with an extremely happy girlfriend this evening. And when she was happy, he was even happier.
"Did you like it?" She asked, directing the question to Doyle first and then letting her eyes carry toward the other two men who were intensely studying their shoes.
"Well, the play's a classic." Doyle enthused, moving to slip an arm around her waist and encourage her to start walking. "But, I doubt I'd have enjoyed it half as much without you as the leading lady. Couldn't rip my eyes away from ya, love."
He wasn't lying. Not really. The play probably would have bored him tears under even the best circumstances. Watching his girlfriend had been the only thing keeping his eyes open. So, yeah, all of his words were 100% true. She seemed pleased by his response, moving closer to him and maintaining her sunny disposition.
"Angel?" She asked, turning to the others as they all strolled together down the street. "Wesley? What did you guys think?"
"I thought… you really made the role your own." Wesley chirped enthusiastically.
"Yeah, and uh… it was memorable…" Angel tried and failed to make his words sound convincingly positive. "Unforgettable, actually."
"Okay, but was I any good?" Cordelia probed, still keeping her eyes on Angel specifically. Apparently, his response was the one she had the most reservations about, and it was no wonder since Angel was apparently finding it hard to be both truthful and kind.
"Uh… I mean…" Angel hedged uncomfortably.
Doyle noticed a big hubbub across the street and thought it was as good an excuse as any to take the spotlight off his friend, and spare his girlfriend's feelings. "Hey, look at that! Isn't it…?"
"Oliver Simon!" Cordelia enthused, following Doyle's line of vision. "One of the most important talent managers in this town. How on earth do you know who he is, Doyle?" She asked incredulously.
"Ah… I don't." Doyle confessed. "I was talkin' about the looker he's accompanying this evenin'."
Cordelia's eyes narrowed at Doyle, but then she turned back to see who he might have actually been talking about. She squealed in excitement as she too recognized the extremely attractive woman in question. "Oh my God! That's Rebecca Lowell, isn't it?!"
"Yeah, that's her alright." Doyle agreed. "She's a lot shorter in person."
"Who?" Wesley asked trying to see what all the fuss was about. He blinked his eyes at the strobing camera flashes, compliments of the paparazzi gathered nearby.
"Rebecca Lowell, the star of On Your Own. It was on the air for almost a decade. Don't tell me you've never heard of it." Cordelia explained with more than a hint of exasperation.
"Was it a good program?" Wesley directed the question to Doyle, who gave a non-committal shrug. He couldn't call it groundbreaking television programming, but out of all the uninteresting programs Harry had subjected him to during their marriage, On Your Own had been one of the more entertaining offerings. That, and Rebecca Lowell was a real looker.
"I thought the first three seasons were solid." Doyle answered. "The show really jumped the shark around season four—there was this ridiculous pregnancy storyline that…" Doyle noticed that Wesley's eyes had glazed over in apparent disinterest, which was a sad state. If he was boring Wesley of all people, then it was a sure sign he should stop talking. "I, uh… heard it made a comeback toward the end of its run."
Angel had been silently observing the scene before them, when without warning he leapt into the middle of the street, shoving Rebecca Lowell to safety and being hit by the car that had been headed right toward her.
"Oh, wow." Cordelia breathed in amazement. "Angel just saved Rebecca Lowell's life. I think I'm finally getting my big break!"
"Ugh, Doyle! You were standing in front of me!" Cordelia's shrill voice seemed to vibrate throughout the entire office. Doyle felt it land specifically in that one vein in his forehead that seemed to be calibrated to her pitch.
Cordelia was leaning over her desk frowning down at the newspaper spread wide open in front of her. Wesley was a braver man than Doyle, slinking up beside her and taking a peek at the image that had caught her eye. "I don't see Doyle in that photograph." He observed, leaning down to take a closer look.
"Right there." She said, tapping on the inky page in frustration. "That's his elbow. See?"
Doyle slowly pulled himself off the couch and cautiously made his way around the desk to witness his apparent fifteen minutes of fame. He followed the edge of her index finger and saw something that could very well be the elbow of his favorite leather jacket; granted, it was mostly just a dark greyish blob.
"Oh." Wesley said, relatively unimpressed. "I suppose that is… a very lovely shot of Doyle's elbow. Yes."
"And if Doyle wasn't standing there, that could've been my elbow!" She moaned. "You should really get used to standing behind me, Doyle. That way, when I become famous and the paparazzi are trying to get my picture, they won't have a tragically dressed Irishman in the way."
That brought a smile to Doyle's lips. She didn't think twice about having him on her arm in the eventuality that she struck it big in the stardom department. What a change from a few months ago when she'd barely wanted him on her arm to go to the coffee shop. Standing behind her for years to come sounded like something Doyle very much wanted to do, regardless of the scenario. "Y'know how much I enjoy standing behind ya, Princess. This won't happen again." He agreed, giving her an affectionate kiss on the cheek and then going back to his former spot, lounging on the couch.
Cordelia and Wesley were still talking in the background, which is why Doyle put in his imaginary earplugs—maybe, he'd gotten a little too good at doing that. One of these days they'd be saying something he actually needed to hear and he would be none the wiser. Then again, this was a conversation between Cordelia and Wesley—the two of them bickered far more than Doyle and Cordelia ever had, only without all the underlying sexual tension to make it interesting. Instead, they fought like siblings and it could be incredibly tedious to listen to. The important thing was Doyle always gave Cordelia undivided attention when she was directly addressing him. With Wesley it was a 50/50 split.
Without the distraction of listening to the actual conversation, Doyle was the first to notice they had company. He stood up quickly, stepping forward to greet the striking woman who had just entered their front door, with two men built like Arnold Schwarzenegger occupying the doorway behind her.
"Ms. Lowell… welcome to Angel Investigations." He said, flashing her his most charming smile, dimples and all. "Can we help ya?"
"Coffee?! Tea?!" Cordelia squeaked from behind Doyle as she scrambled to come to his side. "Anything, really... our intern can fetch whatever you'd like." She gestured behind her toward Wesley who stood behind the desk wearing a put upon expression.
"I'm fine." Rebecca assured them, smiling kindly at both individuals who were clearly star struck by her presence. Although, Doyle liked to think he was keeping it a little more inconspicuous than Cordelia was. "I was hoping I could speak to Angel. Is he in?"
Angel had come to his office doorway silently, as he did so often. "Why don't you step into my office, Ms. Lowell?"
The smile she gave Angel seemed considerably more genuine than the one she'd flashed at the non-vampires in the room. She turned back toward the two hulks standing just outside the door of the front office, and held her hands up in the universal sign for "halt."
"Stay." She ordered, just in case they weren't up to speed on their sign language. She then turned back toward Angel and proceeded into his office. The moment she was through the door Angel gave Cordelia a warning look, which clearly translated to the same thing Rebecca had just told her bodyguards. He then shut the door behind him with a click of finality.
Once again Doyle sunk back onto the small couch, putting his legs up on the coffee table in front of him. Wesley occupied himself by leaning back over the newspaper on Cordelia's desk, flipping to a different section not featuring Doyle's blurry elbow. Like a moth to a flame, Cordelia's ear was pressed conspicuously against Angel's closed door, picking up bits and pieces of the conversation unfolding within and feeding it to her disinterested officemates.
Cordelia's sudden gasp brought Doyle's eyes to her in amused curiosity. Wesley too raised his head, looking much more disapproving of her obvious show of eavesdropping.
"She has a stalker!" Cordelia whispered loudly, placing a worried hand over her mouth. "She's been getting threatening letters written in blood… Angel said it's not blood. Guess we know how he figured that out. Ew, by the way."
Doyle chuckled to himself as he watched her stay glued to the door. He'd never seen her take such an interest in a case before. It would be refreshing if it wasn't so transparent.
"Cordelia, don't you think—?" Wesley tried to encourage her away from the door, but she waved him off dismissively.
"No police. She doesn't want this ending up in the tabloids." Cordelia continued in her thunderous whisper. "Angel's giving her the info on the car. And he's saying..." She stood up straight and screeched. "Are you insane?!"
She spun away from the door faking a sneeze, probably in an attempt to avoid the dirty glare she was getting from Angel within. She stomped away from the door and stood over Doyle, hands on hips, eyes blazing. "He just told her he can't take the case! You need to go in there and change his mind." She ordered, gesturing wildly to the closed door behind her.
Doyle arched a puzzled brow up at her. "Why me?" He wondered. "What makes ya think I can change his mind?"
"Well, for starters, if he doesn't take the case, you're the one who's never going to hear the end of it." She said facetiously. "Also, because he usually listens to you, Doyle. You're like the Angel-whisperer. So, go forth and whisper! Or shout if you have to." She dramatically shooed him toward the door of Angel's office, but he didn't actually move from his place on the couch, instead patting the seat beside him on the couch in invitation. Her mood darkened and she didn't budge.
"He doesn't always listen to me, y'know." Doyle reasoned, gazing up at her. "I told him not to hire Wesley."
Wesley looked offended for a moment before he realized Doyle was merely making a joke at his expense, which Doyle made clear by flashing him a playfully guilty smirk. Doyle then turned back to the ferocious brunette towering over him.
"C'mere, darlin'." He said soothingly, reaching out for her hand. "I'll talk to Angel later, yeah? After the potential client leaves. But, I make no promises about being able to change his mind."
She slumped down on the couch beside Doyle and pouted in the direction of Angel's closed office door. "Why does he always have to be such a party pooper?"
"Oh, I dunno, just one of those skills he's been honing for the better part of a century, I guess."
"Oh, yeah. Right there. That's the spot." Cordelia threw her head back and moaned her approval as Doyle's thumbs kneaded the arch of her foot. "You are so good at this."
"I do have my hidden talents." Doyle acknowledged, keeping his focus on the task at hand, which was massaging the feet currently placed in his lap.
They'd been cuddled up on her couch for most of the evening, but unfortunately the majority of it had consisted of Cordelia whining about Angel's decision not to take the Lowell case. Not to mention, whining about the fact that Doyle hadn't tried hard enough to change his boss' mind. Doyle had tried just about everything to steer the conversation into any other territory, but they kept falling right back to the same pit of despair every time. Now he had moved onto diversionary tactics, which seemed to be working for the past five minutes or so.
"I have to say, this talent is very high on my list of favorites. Much better than your higher-than-average-alcohol tolerance and inability to keep money in your wallet."
"I'll take that as the compliment it is." He said, giving her a cockeyed grin and moving his fingers along the ball of her foot. "Although, in my family, a higher-than-average alcohol tolerance is a talent worth bragging about."
"Yeah? Well, in my family it isn't, but I'm pretty sure my mom could drink any member of your family under the table, assuming she didn't swallow a bottle of Xanax with it." She'd made the comment so offhandedly it took him by surprise.
That was the first time she'd so much as mentioned her mother. Her father was brought up far more often, usually when she was talking about something she used to own before he'd lost all their money. Doyle wanted to ask more questions about her mom, but Cordelia seemed distracted, as if talking about her mother had been completely accidental. There was also the fact that this was a somewhat dangerous topic for him to have her expand on, considering his own tendencies to over-indulge. His drinking, like his gambling—before the Angel-abduction debacle—was an issue he hoped to not make an issue with her. It had been an issue for Harry. One of the main issues, unfortunately. Occasional ribbing aside, Cordelia hadn't indicated she had a real problem with his drinking, but he suspected that wasn't actually the case. Still, he'd rather talk about Cordelia's past than hear her complain about Angel's present.
"Ya wanna talk about it?" Doyle asked cautiously.
"Why would I want to talk about that?" She retorted, putting an end to that line of discussion rather bluntly. Her segue back into the other hot topic of the evening left something to be desired. "So, what's Angel doing with his night off? Let me guess… Sitting in the dark, reading a book he's read a hundred times before. Just like he does all those other nights when we don't have a case. Yawn."
Doyle sighed heavily, placing down the foot he'd been massaging and picking up the other one to begin anew. "Or, patrolling. That's also a thing he does on nights when we don't have a case."
"Yeah, but tonight we could have a case. Rebecca Lowell's case!" The whine was back, as she threw her hands up in the air in dramatic fashion. "I mean, God, Doyle. She could be my first big Hollywood connection… and Angel's ruining it by not helping her. What's wrong? Is he afraid I'm gonna hit it big and quit my job? Because if I do, I promise I'll give him proper notice and find an adequate replacement. I'm not unreasonable, y'know?!"
"It's not that, Cordy. It's…" Doyle tried to think of the best way to explain Angel's hesitations, leaving out the part where he was, in fact, out this very moment keeping tabs on Rebecca Lowell. Angel didn't want Rebecca or Cordelia or anyone else to know that fact. And Doyle really couldn't betray that confidence, not even to get a smile out of his girlfriend. "He likes her." Doyle said simply, raising his green eyes to Cordelia's dark Hazel ones. "He's afraid of getting too close."
"Is that what he told you?" She questioned, drilling her eyes into his searchingly.
"He didn't have to tell me, Princess." Doyle explained, continuing to apply rhythmic pressure against the arch of her foot. "It's pretty obvious."
"So, you're saying it's a curse thing?" She asked with a skeptical arch of her brow. "Because last time I checked, taking a case didn't mean sleeping with the client. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's frowned upon in our line of work."
"It's not just about the curse…" Doyle hedged.
"Then, you've lost me again." She complained, her deep frown returning only to be replaced with a figurative light bulb going on over her head. "Okay, so he doesn't want to get close to Rebecca. Then, why doesn't he have you take the case instead? On behalf of the entire agency. We're a team after all, and you do a lot of the investigative work for Angel. He can't possibly object to that—not when we're as desperate for business as we are."
Doyle had to admire her persistence, even if it was starting to slowly drive him out of his mind. "Ah… I'm not so sure Ms. Lowell would go for that." He pointed out, finally ceasing with the foot massage that had gotten him nowhere in terms of distraction techniques. "Pretty sure she's got a thing for tall, dark and abstinent. It's Angel she was looking to hire, not the team."
"Ugh! Why does my life always have to be so complicated?!" She threw her head back against the arm of the couch and folded her arms tightly across her chest. The air of frustration floated around her like a palpable bubble and Doyle figured he was stuck on the other side of it. Even so, he reached out and pulled her into a sitting position and then coaxed her forward until she was halfway on his lap. She didn't fight him, but her forlorn expression hung heavy.
"Listen to me, Princess. Ya don't need some big shot celebrity's help to become a success. You're a force to be reckoned with all on your own. I believe in ya." He said encouragingly, trying to get her to look at him instead of at the carpet.
She rolled her eyes lightly and gave a sardonic laugh. "You have no idea how Hollywood works, Doyle. Connections are everything. I mean, some people have real talent, I guess. But, most of them just know the right people."
"Not sure why you'd even wanna be in a business like that." He remarked.
"Fame. Fortune. Everyone wants in." She reminded him. "Someone like Rebecca—a connection of that caliber—can really open doors for someone like me."
"Well, I don't know about all that, but I do know ya have someone right here lookin' to make a connection…" He lowered his voice to the sensual growl that usually had a positive effect on her and nuzzled his mouth against the side of her neck.
That made her genuinely laugh, which was at least a positive outcome, if not the one he'd been hoping for. "It's too bad you don't work in casting." She joked, but there was an audible edge of regret.
He kept kissing the side of her neck, running his hands along her back. But a few moments later he felt her wriggle free of his embrace and was confronted with the downward tilt of her mouth. He knew he wasn't likely to be changing her mood tonight. She was in an unshakeable funk, and there was nothing he could do but wait it out.
"I think I'm just gonna go to bed." She said somberly, pushing herself up off the couch and padding away towards the bathroom to wash up.
Doyle was left sitting alone on the couch wondering what he should do next. In silent answer, the TV flipped on and the remote slowly floated across the room and plopped down in his lap.
"Thanks, Dennis, man. I'll stick around and watch the game with ya." Doyle said to the empty air, lifting his feet up onto the coffee table and settling deeper into the couch cushions. "And if ya can wrangle me up some salty snacks, there might be some new comic books in it for ya."
