"Happy Anniversary," Part I

"One desk. We're sharing?" Gunn asked, pointing to the old beat up desk in the middle of the cramped office space. He tossed the remainder of the flyers he'd been sticking on car windshields onto the shoddy wooden surface.

"Be happy there's a desk at all." Cordelia replied, yanking the dead potted plant off its hook on the ceiling and wrinkling her nose at the mulchy smell it contained. She felt her stomach turn over; a wave of nausea hit her and she was forced to brace herself so she wouldn't fall off the tiny stepstool she was standing atop. "If the last occupant of this office hadn't left all his crap here, we'd be sitting on the floor. Not exactly a confidence booster for any would-be clients."

"Yeah, well, if those flyers don't work, we won't have to worry about any would-be clients finding us. We'll be out of business and we'll just leave all this junk for the next guy." Gunn remarked, lifting the phone from the receiver and then tossing it back down. "Forget the flyers if there's no dial tone."

Wesley stuck his head up from where he'd been crawling around under the desk. "Still?" He inquired with barely veiled frustration. "I've connected every wire I could find. I fear it may be a short."

"A short straw." Gunn clarified. "As in, that's what we all drew when we got the boot. Why the hell shouldn't we still be running Angel Investigations, if no one else is?"

"Because we have no Angel." Wesley reminded him. "Which isn't going to stop us from running a successful business. Just wait and see."

"I'm just saying, if Doyle's gonna call us every time he has a vision, we should at least get the perk of having a fancy office with multiple desks. Not to mention the working phone." Gunn complained, and then quickly realizing what he'd said, he focused on Cordelia who had tossed the foul smelling plant into a garbage bag and was now frowning deeply at the layer of dust on top of the bookshelf. "Sorry. Didn't mean to say the D-word."

"You can say whatever meaningless words you want." She commented distractedly, dragging a finger through the dusty surface to see if she'd need a rag or a plow to remove it. Her stomach lurched again, and along with it she felt her head begin to swim. She reached out to hold onto the top of the bookshelf, but soon found the world tilting so badly that she had no other option than to tilt with it…

Right into Gunn's awaiting arms. Human as he was, the guy had great reflexes. "Whoa, easy there." He said, assisting her safely to the ground and making sure she got her feet stable beneath her. "We can't afford workman's comp, remember? Maybe you should start with the bottom shelves."

"Thanks, I haven't been feeling so—" She lifted a hand to cover her mouth as she felt her lunch creep upwards inside her esophagus, and she went racing into the small bathroom nearby, slamming the door behind her.

Gunn and Wesley exchanged an uneasy look as they could hear Cordelia lose the contents of her stomach. Gunn pointed at the closed door and lowered his voice so she couldn't hear, not that she'd hear anything over the sounds of her own retching. "Is it me, or has she been doing that a lot lately?" He observed. "I know she's taken this whole break up thing hard, but I ain't seen anyone get physically sick."

Wesley was staring worriedly at the door that Cordelia had disappeared behind. "I don't think it's the break up that's making her ill."

Gunn cocked his head at Wesley, finally following his train of thought. "You don't think…? I mean, she can't be…"

"I do, and as far as I know, she can be." Wesley confirmed, with a heavy sigh, sitting back on his heels.

"Uh… right." Gunn agreed, moving farther away from the door and leaning on the side of the desk. "There anything we can do to, y'know, help her out?"

"Well… perhaps there's another street you can find to distribute our flyers." Wesley suggested, as he prepared to crawl back under the desk. "I do believe it's rather imperative we make this business venture work."

Gunn scooped up the remainder of the flyers and opened the front door, ready to head back out on marketing detail. "Maybe I'll hit up the old 'hood around the Hyperion. That way, anyone looking for the 'formerly of' part will find their way here instead."

"Good strategy." Wesley approved, watching Gunn leave and then dipping his head under the desk and muttering to himself as he twisted a few more wires underneath. "Aha! I do believe I've found our culprit. Our phone shall be ringing off the hook in no time!"

Zaaaaaap!

"Wesley?!" Cordelia's muffled voice called through the bathroom door. "What happened to the lights?"

"What you don't have you don't need it now. Don't need it now. Was a beautiful day…"

Doyle finished singing his song, and placed the microphone back on its stand in the center of the stage. The scattered applause barely registered, as Doyle made a beeline down the steps and over to the flamboyant Host who was seated at the rear bar.

"Is this a difficult concept? Were we absent the day they taught Sea Breeze in bartender school? Vodka, cranberry, fresh grapefruit juice. Which requires a real live grapefruit. One you must cut and squeeze, not pour from a can." The tall green demon wearing a shiny fuchsia suit was shaking his empty glass at the beleaguered bartender. He placed the glass down with a decisive clunk, and swung around to face Doyle who had sidled up beside him. "Well, hey there, little buddy, nice song choice, tonight. But, gotta say, I disagree… what you don't have, you definitely need it now. More than ever."

"What did ya see?" Doyle asked, ignoring the Host's usual repartee. "Will I be living out the rest of my pathetic existence as a spikey-faced freak, or is there a chance I can still make it to a Lakers game in the near future?"

"That's exactly why I've never enjoyed reading you." The Host said, sucking his teeth in disappointment. "For every lovely note that comes out of your mouth, there's a sour one on the inside. All that demon-hate—it's a real downer, especially for a so-called freak like me."

"Would ya cut to the chase, man?" Doyle barked in reply. "I got places to be."

"No, you really don't. Not unless you need to help your best pal with the lawyer-killing and setting girls on fire schtick." The Host rebutted with little concern, waving a hand in Doyle's direction. "But, cutting to that proverbial chase—there is a problem here. Unrelated to all the other problems you've caused yourself lately."

"And does that problem have something to do with me becoming more demon-like?" Doyle demanded impatiently.

"You're still only half demon, my species-ist friend." The Host clarified. "That will always be true."

Doyle let out a long breath of defeat, feeling like it had been physically knocked out of him by the Host's vague, but damning, declaration. He didn't need it to be spelled out any clearer. "So, that's it then?" He groaned, placing his hands on the side of the bar to brace himself. "That's you're way of telling me I'm doomed, yeah?"

"I didn't say doomed." The Host pointed out. "You're the one choosing that rather gloomy adjective."

"Ah… it's a good thing Cordy walked away when she did." Doyle lamented, keeping his head bowed low. This was his worst nightmare, and the only small blessing he could see was that Cordelia wouldn't be there to witness it happen. She wouldn't be there to pity him. And he wouldn't be there to rob her of a normal life.

"That's just hogwash. You crazy kids have always been better off together than apart." The Host countered. "Y'know, I'd hoped, for both of your sakes, you'd be spared this particular bit of misery. Okay, maybe for hers, more than yours, Mister Misery-who-doesn't-like-company. I really like that gal—a lot of spunk. Not to mention, Hot-O-Rama."

"Hate to break it to ya, pal, but I don't think ya have a shot." Doyle said bitterly, his words laced with double meaning. "Can't see her being with a guy with your complexion."

The nervous bartender timidly approached the Host and placed a new drink in front of him—one that looked not nearly pink enough to be an actual Sea Breeze. The Host stared at it with a pained expression, before waving the other man away and turning his attention back to the deflated half-demon at his side.

Turning back to Doyle, the Host gripped him by the shoulder, forcing him to pay attention. "Listen here, Irish-eyes, you want my advice? Take a tip from that superstar ex of yours and learn to love yourself." He stated plainly. "If you don't stop swimming in the self-pity, you'll be going over a waterfall real soon. With a very rocky bottom."

"I've never been much of a Whitney Houston fan, bud." Doyle growled, finally lifting his head to meet the Host's eyes. "And ya can't scare me. I have nothing left to lose."

The Host sighed dramatically and made a big show of rolling his eyes. "What I'm not-at-all-subtly trying to tell you is, you do have something else to lose. A big something. And before you smart off at me about not being afraid of death—I assure you, that's not what I'm referring to. But you may wish it was, if you don't fix things soon."

Doyle gave the Host a withering glare, but he was admittedly curious about what other possible thing he had left to lose. If it wasn't Cordelia, his humanity or his life, then all he had left was…

Angel. And the shredded remains of his duty to the Powers That Be. Maybe what the Host was trying to hint at, was the very thing Doyle had been striving for all along. The real reason for all of this.

"The baby." Doyle whispered it aloud, without really thinking about the all-important rule of keeping the future to himself—but, hell, the Host had started it. If there was anyone Doyle could openly discuss the future with, it was someone who could actually see it.

The Host had chosen that moment to sip from his questionable looking Sea Breeze and he nearly did a spit take. "Whoa! Hold the phone—are you telling me you already know about that?! That's what I've been so coyly trying to tell you without actually telling you. Well, gee, this makes things easier." The Host waved his hand adamantly. "The child, who was never meant to exist—its life is on the line right now. I can't believe you've known this whole time! Which brings me to my next question—what in the H-E-double-hockey-sticks are you doing here instead of doing everything you can to protect that little guy?!"

Doyle blinked rapidly at the Host, the words he was hearing finally brought a small ray of hope to the otherwise thick cloud of despair that Doyle had been enveloped in. "I didn't know… I wasn't sure there was anything else I could do." Doyle admitted. "I was beginning to think I'd already screwed everything up. That there was no hope left."

"There's that defeatist attitude I've grown to know and loathe." The Host observed. "There's still time to un-screw what currently may be screwed. But, you're not going to be able to do it sitting at this bar, or any other one, for that matter. You need to get back out there and—"

At that moment the Host had only briefly turned his attention to the short, dark-haired nebbish who had taken the stage to sing. And all it had taken was a few notes of All By Myself to knock the big green guy to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Doyle dropped to the ground beside the Host and patted his face, thinking his demon acquaintance might have had a few too many Sea Breezes this evening. Although, if that were the case, it'd be pretty unusual. Doyle had been coming to Caritas for a few years now, and in all that time, he could never remember seeing the Host drunk, much less unable to stand. Ugh, and was that vomit?

Standing up and snapping for the bartender's attention, Doyle gestured to the owner of the establishment who was passed out on the floor. "Hey, new guy. What was in that drink ya gave him?"