DISCLAIMER: Hey kids, it's me again . thank you for those who have
generously reviewed my work, but for the rest of you who haven't (shaking
my fist in anger) . please do! Just a quick note, the song's 'Walk On By'
by Cake, and the line of poetry is from 'When You Are Old' by Yeats.
Cheers!
Walk on by the house
Where you still live
Walk on by the place
Where we would kiss
And the room where
I held you tight
Tonight I must
Walk on by
Walk on by the room
Where you still sleep
Walk on by the company
That you keep
And the room where
I held you tight
Tonight I must
Walk on by
Somehow I know
I won't forget you No, no, no, no, no
I won't
You won't forget me
No, no, no, no, no
You won't
I'll keep on walking
Away from here
I'll forget you when
I reach the other side
Walk on by the house
Where you still live
Walk on by the place
Where we would kiss
And the room where
I held you tight
Tonight I must
Walk on by
*******
Nightfall.
Doyle stirred, rose hesitantly from the delicious warmth of Cordelia's arms, sliding out from under the bedcovers. Sighing a little, he slipped on his T-shirt and stood, gazing down at the sleeping girl with affection. Her lovely face had softened in slumber, cleansed of all worries and worldly concerns.
(There's still tha sadness, Doyle thought gloomily. She misses home. An' now I'm leavin' 'er too.)
Cordelia murmured a little in her sleep. Doyle's heart leapt into his throat; he waiting anxiously, frozen, to see if she would wake. (I won't be able ta leave . I won't be able ta go with those eyes pleadin' for me ta stay .)
She fumbled with the blankets, heaved a dreamy sigh, then rolled back onto her side, clutching a pillow tightly. Doyle exhaled a breath of relief, running a nervous hand through wiry black hair. (Thank the Gods.)
"Doyle."
Alan Francis started abruptly, jumping nearly a mile high with fright. He spun quickly, then shot an vengeful look at the well-known figure invading his bedroom. "Sweet Jesus, ya practically gave me a heart attack!"
Whistler stepped forth from the shadows. His fedora was still tilted at a jaunty angel, his shirt still blindingly ugly, his grin still smug and arrogant. "Dead men don't have heart attacks."
The half-demon glared dangerously, straightening his shirt with an impetuous gesture. "Well, it ain't for a lack of tryin'," he retorted, rising from the bed.
Whistler shook his head, a slight smile forming on his lips. He strode across the room, then paused next to his young charge. "I like you, Alan," he announced, rifling through his jacket. "Always have."
"Thanks," the other mumbled darkly, crossing his arms in an obvious statement of irritation. "That means a lot comin' from the king of rampant alcoholism and bad polyester combinations."
"Hey!" Whistler shot back, indignant, pausing the intensive search through his leather coat. "Pot-with-the-faint-scent-of-whiskey calling the kettle black?"
Doyle settled on a livid glower.
Suddenly, a noise of victory, and a small, silver flask was produced from Whistler's breast pocket. He motioned towards his half-demon companion. "Speaking of, you want any?"
Doyle declined with a slight shake of his head. "Nah, not now," he murmured softly, again glancing at Cordelia's prone form. "But I sure as hell'll need it after."
Whistler's jovial features turned compassionate. He placed a sympathetic, but firm hand on Doyle's shoulder. "We gotta get going. Things to do, souls to save. You know the bit."
His charge sighed, face exquisite with pain. "I know," he muttered absently. "It's just ."
"You'll see her again, Alan. It all works out in the end."
(And we all live happily ever after . Doyle recited sardonically.)
Outwardly, he simply sighed. A weighty sadness had crept into his figure; shoulders sagged, eyes downcast, mouth in an everlasting frown. It seemed as if grief had blanketed his entire soul and now merely existing was too much strain. "Sure, bud," the words barely escaped his lips. "Can you give me a minute?"
Casting one last kind look at the younger demon, Whistler bowed diminutively in respect and melted back into the surrounding shadows. (It's not done, my boy. Not by a long shot.)
Doyle rested once again on their bed, gently stroking Cordelia's blond locks. They'd had, what, two, maybe three months together here on this plain (by Earth standards, at least)? Fate's a funny li'l bastard, he considered lightly. We just miss our chance back in L.A, and now the People Upstairs decide that out of all their divine realms, one dead half-demon's gonna sway the destiny of the planet.
(Didn't I already atone? I mean, I died. Didn't that kinda free me up in some respect?)
Now, he was forced to leave again. Called to fight the good fight. (You owe me, he raged to whatever gods were listening. You owe me big time, and I intend on collectin'.)
He took a moment to savour Cordelia's striking features, memorize every inch of that adored face, planting this instant in his mind indefinitely, forever. The smell of her hair, her sleepy form tucked quietly in a nest of blankets, her radiant presence. (I'll remember, I'll remember .)
Leaning down, he tenderly grazed her lips with a kiss. (I love you, Princess. It don't matter where I am, dead or alive. I still love you.) Just then, a snippet of the past occurred to him; a snatch of some long- forgotten poetry from childhood . He pressed his mouth to her ear, and with warm, broken breath, recited those archaic words in the sweetest of tones.
Then Doyle stood, glanced down at his Princess, blue eyes intensely sad. Whistler shifted uncomfortably behind him. "Alan?"
Alan Francis Doyle, half-demon, Promised One and dead man, turned to his waiting mentor.
"I'm ready."
*******
Cordelia woke.
"Doyle?"
The warm body next to her was missing. And she knew he was gone. For good.
Tears, the first but by far not the last, trickled down her face. Words, spoken softly in her ear, by a voice touched with laughter, wit and a charming Irish brogue:
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
She wept.
*******
Dawn was breaking over Los Angeles.
A lone figure strode the empty streets; a pale young man in who's face was etched more perception, more anguish, more absolute longing than his age suggested was even possible. A bitter knowledge, a cynical acceptance, emaciated from his sinewy form. He had lost everything, and knew there was still more to be taken before the end.
Doyle paused, considered the California sky, streaked with the pinks and oranges of sunrise. He smiled, almost.
"I'm home."
******
Tonight I must
Walk on by.
NOTE: I know I posted this chapter before, but I wasn't really happy with it, so I decided to do a little editing, and voila! Now that I had time to really flesh it out, I'm quite happy with it . one last thing . REVIEWS PLEASE! (
Walk on by the house
Where you still live
Walk on by the place
Where we would kiss
And the room where
I held you tight
Tonight I must
Walk on by
Walk on by the room
Where you still sleep
Walk on by the company
That you keep
And the room where
I held you tight
Tonight I must
Walk on by
Somehow I know
I won't forget you No, no, no, no, no
I won't
You won't forget me
No, no, no, no, no
You won't
I'll keep on walking
Away from here
I'll forget you when
I reach the other side
Walk on by the house
Where you still live
Walk on by the place
Where we would kiss
And the room where
I held you tight
Tonight I must
Walk on by
*******
Nightfall.
Doyle stirred, rose hesitantly from the delicious warmth of Cordelia's arms, sliding out from under the bedcovers. Sighing a little, he slipped on his T-shirt and stood, gazing down at the sleeping girl with affection. Her lovely face had softened in slumber, cleansed of all worries and worldly concerns.
(There's still tha sadness, Doyle thought gloomily. She misses home. An' now I'm leavin' 'er too.)
Cordelia murmured a little in her sleep. Doyle's heart leapt into his throat; he waiting anxiously, frozen, to see if she would wake. (I won't be able ta leave . I won't be able ta go with those eyes pleadin' for me ta stay .)
She fumbled with the blankets, heaved a dreamy sigh, then rolled back onto her side, clutching a pillow tightly. Doyle exhaled a breath of relief, running a nervous hand through wiry black hair. (Thank the Gods.)
"Doyle."
Alan Francis started abruptly, jumping nearly a mile high with fright. He spun quickly, then shot an vengeful look at the well-known figure invading his bedroom. "Sweet Jesus, ya practically gave me a heart attack!"
Whistler stepped forth from the shadows. His fedora was still tilted at a jaunty angel, his shirt still blindingly ugly, his grin still smug and arrogant. "Dead men don't have heart attacks."
The half-demon glared dangerously, straightening his shirt with an impetuous gesture. "Well, it ain't for a lack of tryin'," he retorted, rising from the bed.
Whistler shook his head, a slight smile forming on his lips. He strode across the room, then paused next to his young charge. "I like you, Alan," he announced, rifling through his jacket. "Always have."
"Thanks," the other mumbled darkly, crossing his arms in an obvious statement of irritation. "That means a lot comin' from the king of rampant alcoholism and bad polyester combinations."
"Hey!" Whistler shot back, indignant, pausing the intensive search through his leather coat. "Pot-with-the-faint-scent-of-whiskey calling the kettle black?"
Doyle settled on a livid glower.
Suddenly, a noise of victory, and a small, silver flask was produced from Whistler's breast pocket. He motioned towards his half-demon companion. "Speaking of, you want any?"
Doyle declined with a slight shake of his head. "Nah, not now," he murmured softly, again glancing at Cordelia's prone form. "But I sure as hell'll need it after."
Whistler's jovial features turned compassionate. He placed a sympathetic, but firm hand on Doyle's shoulder. "We gotta get going. Things to do, souls to save. You know the bit."
His charge sighed, face exquisite with pain. "I know," he muttered absently. "It's just ."
"You'll see her again, Alan. It all works out in the end."
(And we all live happily ever after . Doyle recited sardonically.)
Outwardly, he simply sighed. A weighty sadness had crept into his figure; shoulders sagged, eyes downcast, mouth in an everlasting frown. It seemed as if grief had blanketed his entire soul and now merely existing was too much strain. "Sure, bud," the words barely escaped his lips. "Can you give me a minute?"
Casting one last kind look at the younger demon, Whistler bowed diminutively in respect and melted back into the surrounding shadows. (It's not done, my boy. Not by a long shot.)
Doyle rested once again on their bed, gently stroking Cordelia's blond locks. They'd had, what, two, maybe three months together here on this plain (by Earth standards, at least)? Fate's a funny li'l bastard, he considered lightly. We just miss our chance back in L.A, and now the People Upstairs decide that out of all their divine realms, one dead half-demon's gonna sway the destiny of the planet.
(Didn't I already atone? I mean, I died. Didn't that kinda free me up in some respect?)
Now, he was forced to leave again. Called to fight the good fight. (You owe me, he raged to whatever gods were listening. You owe me big time, and I intend on collectin'.)
He took a moment to savour Cordelia's striking features, memorize every inch of that adored face, planting this instant in his mind indefinitely, forever. The smell of her hair, her sleepy form tucked quietly in a nest of blankets, her radiant presence. (I'll remember, I'll remember .)
Leaning down, he tenderly grazed her lips with a kiss. (I love you, Princess. It don't matter where I am, dead or alive. I still love you.) Just then, a snippet of the past occurred to him; a snatch of some long- forgotten poetry from childhood . He pressed his mouth to her ear, and with warm, broken breath, recited those archaic words in the sweetest of tones.
Then Doyle stood, glanced down at his Princess, blue eyes intensely sad. Whistler shifted uncomfortably behind him. "Alan?"
Alan Francis Doyle, half-demon, Promised One and dead man, turned to his waiting mentor.
"I'm ready."
*******
Cordelia woke.
"Doyle?"
The warm body next to her was missing. And she knew he was gone. For good.
Tears, the first but by far not the last, trickled down her face. Words, spoken softly in her ear, by a voice touched with laughter, wit and a charming Irish brogue:
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
She wept.
*******
Dawn was breaking over Los Angeles.
A lone figure strode the empty streets; a pale young man in who's face was etched more perception, more anguish, more absolute longing than his age suggested was even possible. A bitter knowledge, a cynical acceptance, emaciated from his sinewy form. He had lost everything, and knew there was still more to be taken before the end.
Doyle paused, considered the California sky, streaked with the pinks and oranges of sunrise. He smiled, almost.
"I'm home."
******
Tonight I must
Walk on by.
NOTE: I know I posted this chapter before, but I wasn't really happy with it, so I decided to do a little editing, and voila! Now that I had time to really flesh it out, I'm quite happy with it . one last thing . REVIEWS PLEASE! (