A safe but sometimes chilly way of recalling the past is to force open
a crammed drawer. If you are searching for anything in particular, you
don't find it, but something falls out the back that is often more interesting.
-J.M. Barrie
I could feel something in the air as soon as I hit Sunnydale, California.
The Powers That Be had something important planned, that was for sure.
The air smelled of danger, but the sky was bright with joy. Whatever was
coming would not be easy. But then again, what was in Sunnydale?
Buffy and Willow were sitting on Willow's bed in their dorm room, trying to study for their last finals the next day. For the last hour, they had been trying to hold their conversation to history and chemistry, but without success.
"So," said Buffy cautiously. "How did it happen?"
"You mean with Tara?" asked Willow. She didn't take offense at her best friend's curiousity. "I don't know. I was so torn up over Oz and then BANG--there was Tara. It just seems natural."
Buffy was trying her best to hold her composure. This wasn't the sort of thing she was used to discussing with Willow. "So, like, are you, um, attracted..."
"To guys?" interrupted Willow with a small giggle and a bright blush. "Yeah," she replied after thinking a moment. "I can't say that saying no to Oz was easy. I still miss him. It would just be way too complicated having him around."
"Tell me about it," said her friend understandingly. "Things can be so confusing with Riley sometimes. I try not to think about Angel, but I still do. He makes me so angry and upset, yet in the back of my mind, I still have feelings for him." She paused and looked thoughtful. "If Angel were to walk in the door right now with a solution to everything that kept us apart in the first place, I don't know if I could trust myself to not just pick up and go back to him."
"I just wish I knew where Oz is," said Willow. "You know how detached he can seem sometimes. I just don't want him to feel lost." She looked at her hands sadly. "He's lived here his whole life. If he can't stay here, with all his friends and everything he's known..."
"Hey," said Buffy, putting a comforting hand on the red-head's shoulder.
"Oz is a strong guy. He knows how to roll with the punches. I have a feeling
we haven't seen the last of him."
"Angel! I'm leaving! Don't forget that tomorrow is Friday. I won't be in until late afternoon!" Cordelia sighed, turned off the light and opened the front door. She glanced back at the room.
They had only been in the new building a few days now, and it still felt a bit foreign. Cordelia missed the old place. There were so many memories there that she hadn't wanted to let go of.
"You could at least say goodbye," she said, only loud enough for her to hear herself. She exited and hailed a taxi cab.
Doyle. That was Angel's excuse for brooding that day. Not that he needed an excuse. The day before a demon had come to them for help- a Brachen demon. Finding that the job wasn't nearly as difficult as some they had had in the past, Angel had made short work of it and then had returned to his apartment (where he remained the rest of the day), leaving Wesley to finish up.
So many months since Doyle's death and Angel still can't put it behind him, thought Cordelia as she settled into the uncomfortable backseat of the cab for the ten minute ride back to her apartment. I guess that makes two of us.
Doyle's death had been noble, that much she understood. There was simply something not quite right about it. Overlooking the gaping hole that it had left in her emotions, and Angel's private mourning, his death still made her uncomfortable. He still had so much life left to live, yet it was all taken away so quickly that she could have blinked and missed the whole incident.
"Miss?" said the cab driver, holding out his hand. "We're here."
"Thanks," mumbled Cordelia, handing the driver some money. She climbed out and headed up to her apartment, still occupied with her thoughts as she unlocked the door and went inside. The lights flipped on as she walked into the living room.
"Hi Dennis," she said, dropping her purse on the couch and walking to the kitchen. The refrigerator door swung open and a bottle of water floated out. "No thanks. I really just want to be alone for a while." A few seconds later she heard the tv turn on in the other room.
Cordelia dropped to her knees and opened one of the cabinets under the kitchen counter. Reaching to the very back, she fished around a moment and then finally pulled out a medium-sized box. It appeared to contain random junk. Cordelia took it into her bedroom and closed the door. Then she sat down on her bed with the box in front of her.
Angel had gone to Doyle's apartment after he died and cleaned it out. He had taken some of the items that were more personal in nature and put them in the box. Angel figured that if Doyle had given his most valuable possession - the visions - to Cordelia, then he probably would have wanted her to have the others as well.
At first, Cordelia had only been able to cry when she attempted to look through the items. Finally, after several weeks of trying, she had shoved it into the back of the cabinet so she wouldn't have to think about it. Now that their office had been destroyed, Cordelia hoped that this box would hold something that would allow her to hold onto Doyle's memory. Because she was so scared of forgetting.
Cordelia picked up a few things and looked at them. There was a small black and white photograph of someone she assumed was Doyle's mother. She smiled, seeing the great resemblance. She carefully set the fragile paper on her night stand.
The next couple of things seemed merely trinkets to Cordelia, as they held no real value as far as Doyle's memory was concerned. There was a marble statue that looked like the Virgin Mary. It was chipped and dusty. Next to it was a gorgeously carved ivory letter opener. Cordelia had to giggle when she found herself wondering why he hadn't pawned the antique to pay off his debts. Her smile faded when she realized it must have held sentimental value.
Another item caught her eye, and she dug down to the bottom of the pile to retrieve it. It was a small book, bound in dark green leather, with a gold shamrock engraved on the cover. She traced the title lightly with the tip of her finger--Irish Proverbs and Poetry.
And then, for the first time since the few weeks after Doyle's death, Cordelia laid down on her bed, the book still clutched in her hand, and cried herself to sleep.