DISCLAIMER: You know the drill; they're not mine. If the airline Amerair
really
does exist (I have no friggin' clue; I'm Canadian! But I hope not, with a
dorky
name like that ...), then adamantly declare I am not using its' name for my
own
whims. Now onto more important matters ... I know in the disclaimer of
chapter
seven, I said that my story would in no way reflect current ATS happenings
because of my disgust for the events presently unfolding on the series. I
wanted
to clarify that there was a few things, namely two important plot points
that
have, or will be happening on the TV show. The first, I admit, was not of
my own
invention originally, but is being twisted to suit my whims. The second I
always
intended to add to the story and it just so happens that the writers of
'Angel'
thought the same thing. I just wanted to let you all know that I'm not a
hypocrite or anything, considering how bitter my second last disclaimer was
...
so with that said, onto the story. (Do you notice how this little Author's
Note
section is becoming home to all my crazy tangents? Sorry guys! :) ) The
first
quote's from the song 'Til I Am Myself Again' by Blue Rodeo (I know I used
them
two chapters back, but these lyrics really worked!), 'Down At The Khyber'
by
Joel Plaskett Emergency, 'Evaporated' by Ben Folds Five and 'The Big
Picture' by
Bright Eyes. Cheers!
******************
"I feel like a stranger from another world,
but at least I'm living again."
-Blue Rodeo
"I got sick,
And I got sicker,
And then I spent a month in bed,
Until the visions came to me quicker,
I saw ghosts and I saw red."
-Joel Plaskett Emergency
"Don't you know I'm numb, man,
No I can't feel a thing at all,
cos it's all smiles and business these days,
and I'm indifferent to the loss.
I think there's a soul somewhere,
leading me around,
I wonder if she knows which way is down."
-Ben Folds Five
*****************
"Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Flight 378 from New York City to Honolulu will be making an emergency landing at this time. Due to sudden weather conditions, we will be landing at the Los Angeles International Airport in approximately fifteen minutes. All outgoing flights will be grounded until further notice. If you have any concerns or questions, please direct them to one of the in-flight attendants. Thank you for flying Amerair."
The tinny voice over the loudspeaker disappeared as an audible groan rippled through the passengers. Many were in the midst of Christmas vacation, eager to arrive on the white sand coasts of Hawaii, not to spend a restless night on the grimy plastic chairs of LAX.
Kate Lockley sighed with resignation and began slipping her magazines into the carry-on bag in her lap. Los Angeles. The last place she wanted to be right now. Or ever again, for that matter. A barrage of memories, mostly unpleasant, came flooding back to her ... images of the disgust and shame apparent on her former colleagues' faces, images of her father's lifeless, bloodied corpse, images of Angel, his beautiful features hideously twisted ...
New York City had been a good place to disappear. A good place to forget. Kate had managed to get reinstated on a police force (-albeit, as Officer Lockley-), bury her past under half-truths and sly mystery, responding to curious inquiries about her history with a casual joke, or sometimes an icy glare. The NYPD cops in Kate's division knew she'd been discharged under strange circumstances, but none had any idea her firing involved a bloodsucking monster.
New York had been so gloriously ... normal, but through the wet drizzle, grey skies and hot dog vendors, Officer Lockley desperately ached to go home. She missed L.A's bustling boardwalks, sun-kissed beach combers and sultry evening breeze; even with the dark, supernatural underbelly she'd so recently discovered, the City of Angels still sometimes called to her.
But she had nothing there. Nothing to go home to. It was easy to resist California's beckoning shores when all they held were memories of a lost life. Her father was dead, her friends thought she was crazy ... and Angel. Angel was still lurking around somewhere, and deep down, Kate blamed him for everything that had happened.
They'd made their peace, parted as allies, if not as friends. But still ... the do-gooder vampire had unleashed an entirely different world on Kate, forced her to open her eyes, accept a new way of existing. A harder way of existing. For that untimely revelation, she would always love him ... and always hate him.
Officer Lockley leaned against the plane window, the cool surface soothing against her forehead. She closed her eyes briefly, wondering how long the delay would last, visions of the awaiting beaches and warm tropical breezes of Christmas vacation taunting her. A sudden gasp startled the jet-lagged cop from her nap. The woman in the neighbouring seat was leaning across Kate, neck craned towards the tiny window, her face ashen with shock.
Kate followed the frightened woman's gaze, her features turning the same shade of pasty white as she beheld the spectacle appearing outside their airplane. She felt herself beginning to tremble, terrified to her core with the implications of this mid-air marvel ....
(-dear God ... thisisnothappeningthisisnothappeningthisisnothappening- )
It was raining fire.
*********************
"Where's the little Irishman? Still sulking?" Cordelia demanded, setting a tray of steaming coffee down amid the piles of ancient texts and loose papers cluttering the office table. Wesley, Harry, Fred and Lorne gratefully accepted hot beverages, thankful for a slight break in their lengthy research session. Angel and Gunn had departed a good two hours before, and the ragtag band had yet to stumble upon any kind of spell that would protect the Hyperion. A sullen Connor lounged upstairs, still annoyed that his father had banned anyone from patrolling until his return. The teenage felt restless, trapped, wanting nothing more than to beat some evil demons into submission. Doyle, still seemingly fazed by recent events, had retreated outdoors, away from the others. Wesley could sympathize with the overwhelming nature of the past day.
"Give the man a break, Cordelia," the ex-Watcher scolded tiredly, sipping his gloriously-caffeinated refreshment. "Three years is a long time to be gone, and a long time to be 'dead', for that matter. Think of all he's trying to absorb right now, while surrounded by almost all complete strangers and an apocalypse to boot."
The young Seer sighed. "I know, Wes. I just ... I want him to be happy that he's back. I know this is hard for him, and the 'End of Days' isn't the most welcoming of circumstances, not to mention that he's got all this uber- guilt about giving me the visions, but it's okay because he's alive again. Right?" She looked to the others for affirmation.
Harry gazed at Cordelia's hopeful features, the fact that this girl was only twenty-one suddenly dawning on her. With the premature worry lines and serious, dark eyes (-that had seen far too much-) it was easy to forget how young she truly was. "Just give him some time," the older woman reassured. "He's only been here a day and this is ... well, things are different. It's hard to accept that the world moved on without you. Besides, we don't even really know where Francis spent the last three years."
"He mentioned something about a 'Wishverse'," Fred piped up. "An alternate Hellmouth. Guess he kinda did the same stuff ... killing vampires ... but without Angel or Cordy ... or pretty much anyone, since they were dead and all." The Pylean refugee failed to notice Cordelia's shocked stare as she crinkled her nose, pondering a sudden, all-too-familiar afterthought.
"Musta been lonely."
****************
Doyle skulked around the Hyperion's darkened courtyard, trying extremely hard not to look "all broody and self-flagellating", as Cordelia had so tactlessly put it. After the young Seer's vision, Angel had taken off to the L.A County Jail with Gunn in tow, instructing Wesley, Fred, Lorne and Harry to search for some type of sanctuary spell for the Hyperion, some sort of protection from the fire. Also before his departure were fierce instructions to Doyle about staying put. The half-demon had argued that miraculous dimension-traveling and spontaneous, feverish comas didn't constitute a reason to stay out of the action, but the vampire was adamant about Doyle "resting up" and "regaining his strength".
The logical side of the Irishman's brain agreed whole-heartedly with Angel, was nagging it's owner to go back to bed, or at least help some magickal research. But going back upstairs meant having to deal with the boxes labeled "Doyle's Stuff" littering his new bedroom, and perusing the relics of an old (-no, make that dead-) life didn't exactly appeal to him. The neatly-packaged shrine to his former existence creeped him out, to be honest. It was like admitting that he'd really, truly, completely died ... which in fact, he had ... but the half- demon wasn't exactly ready to give up the happy "Long Vacation" denial-a-thon. Alternative universes and pseudo-demises were a tricky business.
The other option for the former Seer's evening was the wild party that was researching. As much as Doyle longed for the company of the Three Brainiac Musketeers, he had decided to skip that little shindig and pace impatiently on the terrace. It was selfish and mean, sure, but he didn't fancy catching curious, half-hidden stares from the Fred girl or watching Harry and Wesley make googly-eyes over moldy-smelling books. (-Stupid British idjit droolin' all over Harry, show 'im where ta shove one of them poncy encyclopedias ... listen to yerself, man. Three years pass and ya still got 'jealous ex' down to a T-) Plus, there was ... well, there was a lot, to say the least.
Cordelia had happened upon him there earlier, after recovering from her vision. In her brash but loving manner, she'd informed the Irishman that just because Angel was out for the evening didn't mean someone had to fill his brooding quotient, and that Doyle was in fact allowed to join the living, since he too was now a part of that demographic.
He'd politely declined, pleading a need for fresh air and a promise to come in soon. It was hard, to act as if everything was normal even though fire was raining from the sky and he'd been literally resurrected less than twenty four hours before. To deal with the fact that Angel had a son (currently lurking around the hotel), the apocalypse was right around the corner and Cordelia was some sort of Higher Being suffering the visions that once afflicted him.
Cordy.
(-It always comes back to her, doesn't it? Worlds collide and empires crumble, eh? All for one woman ... a real Helen of Troy ...-)
In addition to dealing with the abrupt shove back into his own world, Doyle was feeling the weighty burden of guilt. After his sudden exodus to the Great Beyond, he'd left a certain 19-year-old ex-May Queen with the head- crunching, mind-numbing visions he'd so often complained about. Not that he meant to ... but still. You'd think something as powerful as messages from the PTBs would come with a little warning sign or flashing neon disclaimer.
That divine transference was just another mystery to rack up there with two vampires producing a (seemingly) human child, Cordelia ascending to a higher plane, current "End of Days"-esque events and why the hell the People Upstairs using him as their personal amphitheatre.
Nothing was making sense anymore. (-Hell man, did it ever? Omnipotent powers, ensouled vampires and alternate dimensions? Since when has your life ever made sense?-) True story ... but still ... coming back to all of it was so much harder. Especially after what happened back in Alterna-L.A; especially after three years of knowing and waiting and wishing ...
For her.
Doyle wanted to say that those past few years of battling demonic hordes in a different dimension had been a continuation of his penance, his quest for redemption. A noble act, even. That he'd been fighting for the preservation of good, making sacrifices to help humanity.
But that would be a complete lie.
The half-demon was ashamed of some facets of his personality, but had come to pride himself on his honesty. After all he'd been through, it was too hard to live a falsehood. The truth, as brutal as it was, had become an old friend, a welcome, familiar visitor. So when Doyle had received "brain flashes" in the so-called Wishverse, updates on his friends from the People Upstairs, the Irishman had accepted them at face-value. Cordelia's demonic pregnancy, Angel and Darla's violent coupling, Fred's rescue, Wesley's betrayal, the growing romance between the vampire and his Seer ... the half-demon understood more about each member of A.I's ragtag family than any of them ever imagined. Because he admitted the truths that they never could. Each one still hid behind some sort of facade, still harboured some long-ago grief or ancient wound. Each one had a weakness, whether they would concede it or not.
Angel's was his redemption, and more importantly, Connor.
Wesley's was the loss of his friends, his current quasi-exile.
And Doyle's?
Well, she happened to be standing right next to him.
*******************
"Nothing," Fred muttered, dumping an armload of papers down the paper with frustration. "I can't find anything that's gonna help us protect the Hyperion, let alone hurt the Beast." The young Texan eased her long, thin frame up off the fold-up chair and sidled out of the room with mug in hand, on the search for more of A.I's 'special-brand-of-yuck' coffee.
Lorne mimicked Fred, rising to follow the girl into the kitchen. "I can only read so many Azkranian scrolls before my head starts to hurt," the green- skinned demon grumbled as he exited the office. "Blah, blah, End of Days, blah, blah, bloodshed and terror. All this 'creatures-rising-from-the-pits-of-Hell' thing is so passe."
"Tell me about it," Harry responded dryly, kneading the back of her aching neck.
Wesley looked up from his archaic tome, offering the enthnodemonologist a weak smile. She returned the gesture, regarding the British ex-Watcher inquisitively as he returned to his reading. There was a wildness, a certain gleam in his eyes. The look of a man had that been pushed to the edge and beyond. A deep sadness seemed to surround him; some quality on his unshaven, haggard face made Harry think that this despondent melancholy was learned. An adaption. That maybe he hadn't always been so ... unhappy.
"I wish I'd known you before," she blurted out suddenly, words tumbling out unbidden. 'Good one, sister,' she mentally berated herself, turning a rosy shade of pink at Wesley's surprised expression.
"Before what, Harry?" Cool blue eyes narrowed in amused confusion.
Blushing furiously, the ethnodemonologist began to take an intense interest in the desk's grainy tabletop, studying the wooden texture with great concern. "Before, before whatever made you so sad happened," she murmured, feeling like a stupid (-nosy-) little schoolgirl. What was this, grade school? Since when did Harriet Doyle go all weak-kneed and silly at the thought of an (admittedly handsome) man she'd just met?
Wesley exhaled a deep, heavy sigh, his entire form sagging with that release. He slipped off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose slowly, methodically. Looking far older than his late-twenty something years, the supernatural investigator slouched forward with weariness. "Harry ..." he began, voice betraying that same half-hidden pain. But whether Wesley planned on spilling his life story or berating the ethnodemonologist for such a personal question was never revealed, because at that moment Fred re-entered the room, bearing several more cups of coffee.
Harry didn't miss the Brit's reaction to Fred's approach; his gaze hungrily absorbing the soft brown tendrils, delicate features and long limbs, the naked longing apparent in his eyes. Wes shifted uncomfortably, casting another look at Harry and swallowing forcefully. "Yes, well ..." he stammered, his attempt at playing casual failing miserably. "Back to the books then."
The former-Mrs. Francis Doyle felt a surge of disappointment watching Fred and Wesley chat, noting the subtle adoration on the former's features. Maybe that ... maybe she was the reason. (-Strange little family Angel's got here-) What did it matter, anyway? She'd just met the guy literally hours before; they'd barely even had time to say hello and she was already moping over Wesley's preoccupation with another girl. Another girl, she sternly reminded herself, that had known him about five million times longer than she had. Jeesh. Maybe the End of Days did funny things to people. But as she returned to a Samoan text, Harry couldn't help but once again reconsider her immediate attraction and the words she'd so awkwardly stuttered only moments before.
'I wish I'd met you before all of this ...'
(-Before her.-)
*******************
"Fred told me about the whole 'you-existing-in-the-alternate-time-I- created' thing," Cordelia announced in the silent night air. She stepped closer towards Doyle, joining him on the shadowed terrace. "I lived in that world for one day. I can't even imagine three years ..."
The Irishman fished through his jacket, producing a rumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver Zippo. Jamming the smoke into one corner of his mouth, he flicked the lighter open, the glow from the flame dancing on his serious features. The end of the cigarette burned orange, and Doyle inhaled deeply, blowing out a cloud of grey smoke. "If you're apologizin' Princess, don't bother."
If the smoking bothered Cordelia, she didn't let it show. "Don't bother?" she fumed incredulously. "You suffered for three years in a place where the Master snacked on humans like Happy Meals, a place, I might remind you, created solely by my stupidity and conceit. That is so not okay."
The former Seer took another long drag. "Ya didn't know and yea certainly didn't send me there, Cor. Wasn't no sunshine an' daisies, but they needed help and I guess I was the half-demon for tha job."
His lovely companion sighed, sympathy and regret practically radiating from her. "It's not fair, Doyle. You're like, the PTBs' bitch or something."
The Irishman had to laugh, but it was a dry, broken sound. "Maybe I deserved it."
His morose response just renewed Cordelia's frustration. (-Jeesh Doyle, cut yourself a break! Maybe your past isn't perfectly shiny, but too much drinking and one bad decision doesn't deserve emotional crucifixion!-) "Didn't we go over this already? Enough with the self-flagellation! Angel pulls it off, but you sure as Hell don't." Her light sarcasm died off, grin fading from her beautiful features. She stepped closer to the Irishman, studying his miserable expression. "What happened, Doyle? You ... you scare me like this. You're not yourself."
The ex-Messenger turned sharply, eyes flashing. His voice was low and dangerous, ragged with regret. "How would you know, darlin'?" he spat, far harsher than he meant to. "You don't even really know me anyway."
Cordelia recoiled, visibly shocked and upset. Doyle had never spoken to her like that ... never been so ... hurtful. It was a rare moment that a Chase woman was speechless, but the Irishman had just succeeded in doing what few had ever accomplished ... Sunnydale High's former May Queen couldn't think of a thing to say. "I ... I, I'm sorry Doyle," she stammered, still too astounded to even let rise her infamous temper. Her voice turned cold. "Sorry I bothered you. I should go." She turned quickly, thoughts scattered in confusion.
"'Delia."
The sound of her name, rolling off his tongue in that soft, Irish lilt was too much. The anger which had begun to boil to the surface was sated. A shiver ran through her, savouring the charming brogue that had haunted her dreams these past three years.
(-He sounds so ...sad.-)
Angel's current Seer ambled back, cautious, still smarting from the half-demon's earlier verbal cut. She reached out and gingerly touched his arm. "Doyle?"
"I'm so sorry, Cor," he sighed. "I didn't mean ta talk so harsh. I just meant that we only knew each ot'er a coupla months, and maybe I wasn't completely honest. Like I wasn't just atonin' fer turnin' my back on my fellow Brackens. Maybe there was ... ot'er stuff that needed redeemin'."
The Seer's brow furrowed. "Like what?"
Doyle squirmed, clearly uncomfortable. He flicked some ash from his cigarette, and indulged in another soothing drag. "Like ... stuff," he muttered, eyes darting everywhere but his companion's face. His mind processed furiously, trying to calculate some way out of the mess he'd made. (-Open mouth, insert foot. Good one, boyo, tryin' ta get all confessional-like about the one thing ya can't tell her.-)
Cordelia echoed the Irishman's earlier sigh, realizing that this line of questioning would lead nowhere. Doyle had clammed up completely and now stood off to her right, fidgeting nervously. The former cheerleader considered the night sky, glad to have the relative protection of the porch roof from the rain of fire. She wondered idly how much more the Hyperion could withstand. No blazes yet, but ...
Suddenly, something dawned on her; an age-old question with an answer much longed for. Without any thought to the consequences, the Seer blurted out her query: "Why did you give me the visions?" The half-demon's look of pure bafflement (and slight terror) simply confirmed her realization that sometimes a self-edit was necessary.
"Uh ... come again?" Doyle stuttered, crushing the finished cigarette beneath his boot heel.
(-Oh well. Too late now ... isn't this how I always used to do it? Cordelia "tell-it-like-it-is" Chase. Honest. Well, tactless too ... but still. At least I told the truth, even if it was brutal. I think I lost that a while ago ...- ) "I got a visit from this demon, Skip, on my birthday, and he told me you weren't supposed to pass those visions onto a regular old human. But you managed to because, uh ..." Here the young woman faltered. (-Surprise, I know you were in love with me? Cue the awkward tension!-) "Because you ... ya know ..."
"Know what?" the Irishman encouraged. "I've been wonderin' the same thing since I never intended ta pass on that skull-splittin' inheritance, so if ya want ta solve tha mystery any time this century, be my guest."
"You loved me. I got the visions because you loved me," she exploded. "The Powers That Be may control life and death, but love's out of their jurisdiction, blah, blah. That whole thing." Her tangent trailed off, and Cordelia was left with an awful sense of dread and one very agitated half-demon.
The Irishman's gaze drifted to the horizon, reliving another place, another time. (-Damn you Skip. Never could keep yer trap shut. All makes sense now, though ... -) "Because I love yea," he repeated quietly, a slow smile growing on his lips. Cordelia didn't seem to notice the dropped past tense. (-I like the sounds of that.-)
The soft orange flow of the fires lit up the current Messenger's ethereal features. She was suddenly intensely shy. "So you didn't know I'd get them?"
"Had no idea, Princess an' I'm still sorry that ya suffered so," Doyle murmured, sheepish, raking one hand through already-mussed hair. "Don't think I even realized that I, well ... um, loved yea ... 'till we kissed." He blushed boyishly, making his nervous, stuttery confession all the more charming.
Her heart fluttered at his adorable declaration. "I don't think I knew either," she responded softly, more to herself than her companion. The Irishman looked slightly confused. Cordelia sighed and strode across the patio, dimly aware of the conversation she'd had there with Angel weeks before.
(-Seems like a lifetime ago-)
The Seer gazed deeply into Doyle's bright blue eyes, surprised at how much warmth swelled within her at his presence. "The answer to your question," she chided, gliding towards the door. She stopped before the entrance, turning back to the half-demon, voice barely more than a whisper.
"I could of learned."
***********************
Connor observed the entire scene from a second-storey balcony, jealousy stirring within him. He was Cordelia's protector now; he loved her and they were going to be together. Primitive urges, borne of a boyish emotional conscience that had barely matured beyond "want" and "need". He understood that Cordy had cared for his father; comprehended that she seemed to care for this Doyle as well. But she'd chosen him ... he was her's.
And she was his.
Forever.
***********************
"But I have seen the day of your awakening boy and it's coming soon.
So go ahead and loose yourself in liquor,
and you can praise the clouded mind,
but it isn't what you are thinking
it's the course of history,
your position in line.
You are just a piece of the puzzle,
so I think you had better find your place.
And don't go blaming your knowledge on some fruit you ate.
Because there has been a great deal of discussion, yes,
about the properties of man.
Animal or angel?
You were carved from bone, but your heart it's just sand.
And the wind is going to scatter it and cover everything with love."
******************
"I feel like a stranger from another world,
but at least I'm living again."
-Blue Rodeo
"I got sick,
And I got sicker,
And then I spent a month in bed,
Until the visions came to me quicker,
I saw ghosts and I saw red."
-Joel Plaskett Emergency
"Don't you know I'm numb, man,
No I can't feel a thing at all,
cos it's all smiles and business these days,
and I'm indifferent to the loss.
I think there's a soul somewhere,
leading me around,
I wonder if she knows which way is down."
-Ben Folds Five
*****************
"Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Flight 378 from New York City to Honolulu will be making an emergency landing at this time. Due to sudden weather conditions, we will be landing at the Los Angeles International Airport in approximately fifteen minutes. All outgoing flights will be grounded until further notice. If you have any concerns or questions, please direct them to one of the in-flight attendants. Thank you for flying Amerair."
The tinny voice over the loudspeaker disappeared as an audible groan rippled through the passengers. Many were in the midst of Christmas vacation, eager to arrive on the white sand coasts of Hawaii, not to spend a restless night on the grimy plastic chairs of LAX.
Kate Lockley sighed with resignation and began slipping her magazines into the carry-on bag in her lap. Los Angeles. The last place she wanted to be right now. Or ever again, for that matter. A barrage of memories, mostly unpleasant, came flooding back to her ... images of the disgust and shame apparent on her former colleagues' faces, images of her father's lifeless, bloodied corpse, images of Angel, his beautiful features hideously twisted ...
New York City had been a good place to disappear. A good place to forget. Kate had managed to get reinstated on a police force (-albeit, as Officer Lockley-), bury her past under half-truths and sly mystery, responding to curious inquiries about her history with a casual joke, or sometimes an icy glare. The NYPD cops in Kate's division knew she'd been discharged under strange circumstances, but none had any idea her firing involved a bloodsucking monster.
New York had been so gloriously ... normal, but through the wet drizzle, grey skies and hot dog vendors, Officer Lockley desperately ached to go home. She missed L.A's bustling boardwalks, sun-kissed beach combers and sultry evening breeze; even with the dark, supernatural underbelly she'd so recently discovered, the City of Angels still sometimes called to her.
But she had nothing there. Nothing to go home to. It was easy to resist California's beckoning shores when all they held were memories of a lost life. Her father was dead, her friends thought she was crazy ... and Angel. Angel was still lurking around somewhere, and deep down, Kate blamed him for everything that had happened.
They'd made their peace, parted as allies, if not as friends. But still ... the do-gooder vampire had unleashed an entirely different world on Kate, forced her to open her eyes, accept a new way of existing. A harder way of existing. For that untimely revelation, she would always love him ... and always hate him.
Officer Lockley leaned against the plane window, the cool surface soothing against her forehead. She closed her eyes briefly, wondering how long the delay would last, visions of the awaiting beaches and warm tropical breezes of Christmas vacation taunting her. A sudden gasp startled the jet-lagged cop from her nap. The woman in the neighbouring seat was leaning across Kate, neck craned towards the tiny window, her face ashen with shock.
Kate followed the frightened woman's gaze, her features turning the same shade of pasty white as she beheld the spectacle appearing outside their airplane. She felt herself beginning to tremble, terrified to her core with the implications of this mid-air marvel ....
(-dear God ... thisisnothappeningthisisnothappeningthisisnothappening- )
It was raining fire.
*********************
"Where's the little Irishman? Still sulking?" Cordelia demanded, setting a tray of steaming coffee down amid the piles of ancient texts and loose papers cluttering the office table. Wesley, Harry, Fred and Lorne gratefully accepted hot beverages, thankful for a slight break in their lengthy research session. Angel and Gunn had departed a good two hours before, and the ragtag band had yet to stumble upon any kind of spell that would protect the Hyperion. A sullen Connor lounged upstairs, still annoyed that his father had banned anyone from patrolling until his return. The teenage felt restless, trapped, wanting nothing more than to beat some evil demons into submission. Doyle, still seemingly fazed by recent events, had retreated outdoors, away from the others. Wesley could sympathize with the overwhelming nature of the past day.
"Give the man a break, Cordelia," the ex-Watcher scolded tiredly, sipping his gloriously-caffeinated refreshment. "Three years is a long time to be gone, and a long time to be 'dead', for that matter. Think of all he's trying to absorb right now, while surrounded by almost all complete strangers and an apocalypse to boot."
The young Seer sighed. "I know, Wes. I just ... I want him to be happy that he's back. I know this is hard for him, and the 'End of Days' isn't the most welcoming of circumstances, not to mention that he's got all this uber- guilt about giving me the visions, but it's okay because he's alive again. Right?" She looked to the others for affirmation.
Harry gazed at Cordelia's hopeful features, the fact that this girl was only twenty-one suddenly dawning on her. With the premature worry lines and serious, dark eyes (-that had seen far too much-) it was easy to forget how young she truly was. "Just give him some time," the older woman reassured. "He's only been here a day and this is ... well, things are different. It's hard to accept that the world moved on without you. Besides, we don't even really know where Francis spent the last three years."
"He mentioned something about a 'Wishverse'," Fred piped up. "An alternate Hellmouth. Guess he kinda did the same stuff ... killing vampires ... but without Angel or Cordy ... or pretty much anyone, since they were dead and all." The Pylean refugee failed to notice Cordelia's shocked stare as she crinkled her nose, pondering a sudden, all-too-familiar afterthought.
"Musta been lonely."
****************
Doyle skulked around the Hyperion's darkened courtyard, trying extremely hard not to look "all broody and self-flagellating", as Cordelia had so tactlessly put it. After the young Seer's vision, Angel had taken off to the L.A County Jail with Gunn in tow, instructing Wesley, Fred, Lorne and Harry to search for some type of sanctuary spell for the Hyperion, some sort of protection from the fire. Also before his departure were fierce instructions to Doyle about staying put. The half-demon had argued that miraculous dimension-traveling and spontaneous, feverish comas didn't constitute a reason to stay out of the action, but the vampire was adamant about Doyle "resting up" and "regaining his strength".
The logical side of the Irishman's brain agreed whole-heartedly with Angel, was nagging it's owner to go back to bed, or at least help some magickal research. But going back upstairs meant having to deal with the boxes labeled "Doyle's Stuff" littering his new bedroom, and perusing the relics of an old (-no, make that dead-) life didn't exactly appeal to him. The neatly-packaged shrine to his former existence creeped him out, to be honest. It was like admitting that he'd really, truly, completely died ... which in fact, he had ... but the half- demon wasn't exactly ready to give up the happy "Long Vacation" denial-a-thon. Alternative universes and pseudo-demises were a tricky business.
The other option for the former Seer's evening was the wild party that was researching. As much as Doyle longed for the company of the Three Brainiac Musketeers, he had decided to skip that little shindig and pace impatiently on the terrace. It was selfish and mean, sure, but he didn't fancy catching curious, half-hidden stares from the Fred girl or watching Harry and Wesley make googly-eyes over moldy-smelling books. (-Stupid British idjit droolin' all over Harry, show 'im where ta shove one of them poncy encyclopedias ... listen to yerself, man. Three years pass and ya still got 'jealous ex' down to a T-) Plus, there was ... well, there was a lot, to say the least.
Cordelia had happened upon him there earlier, after recovering from her vision. In her brash but loving manner, she'd informed the Irishman that just because Angel was out for the evening didn't mean someone had to fill his brooding quotient, and that Doyle was in fact allowed to join the living, since he too was now a part of that demographic.
He'd politely declined, pleading a need for fresh air and a promise to come in soon. It was hard, to act as if everything was normal even though fire was raining from the sky and he'd been literally resurrected less than twenty four hours before. To deal with the fact that Angel had a son (currently lurking around the hotel), the apocalypse was right around the corner and Cordelia was some sort of Higher Being suffering the visions that once afflicted him.
Cordy.
(-It always comes back to her, doesn't it? Worlds collide and empires crumble, eh? All for one woman ... a real Helen of Troy ...-)
In addition to dealing with the abrupt shove back into his own world, Doyle was feeling the weighty burden of guilt. After his sudden exodus to the Great Beyond, he'd left a certain 19-year-old ex-May Queen with the head- crunching, mind-numbing visions he'd so often complained about. Not that he meant to ... but still. You'd think something as powerful as messages from the PTBs would come with a little warning sign or flashing neon disclaimer.
That divine transference was just another mystery to rack up there with two vampires producing a (seemingly) human child, Cordelia ascending to a higher plane, current "End of Days"-esque events and why the hell the People Upstairs using him as their personal amphitheatre.
Nothing was making sense anymore. (-Hell man, did it ever? Omnipotent powers, ensouled vampires and alternate dimensions? Since when has your life ever made sense?-) True story ... but still ... coming back to all of it was so much harder. Especially after what happened back in Alterna-L.A; especially after three years of knowing and waiting and wishing ...
For her.
Doyle wanted to say that those past few years of battling demonic hordes in a different dimension had been a continuation of his penance, his quest for redemption. A noble act, even. That he'd been fighting for the preservation of good, making sacrifices to help humanity.
But that would be a complete lie.
The half-demon was ashamed of some facets of his personality, but had come to pride himself on his honesty. After all he'd been through, it was too hard to live a falsehood. The truth, as brutal as it was, had become an old friend, a welcome, familiar visitor. So when Doyle had received "brain flashes" in the so-called Wishverse, updates on his friends from the People Upstairs, the Irishman had accepted them at face-value. Cordelia's demonic pregnancy, Angel and Darla's violent coupling, Fred's rescue, Wesley's betrayal, the growing romance between the vampire and his Seer ... the half-demon understood more about each member of A.I's ragtag family than any of them ever imagined. Because he admitted the truths that they never could. Each one still hid behind some sort of facade, still harboured some long-ago grief or ancient wound. Each one had a weakness, whether they would concede it or not.
Angel's was his redemption, and more importantly, Connor.
Wesley's was the loss of his friends, his current quasi-exile.
And Doyle's?
Well, she happened to be standing right next to him.
*******************
"Nothing," Fred muttered, dumping an armload of papers down the paper with frustration. "I can't find anything that's gonna help us protect the Hyperion, let alone hurt the Beast." The young Texan eased her long, thin frame up off the fold-up chair and sidled out of the room with mug in hand, on the search for more of A.I's 'special-brand-of-yuck' coffee.
Lorne mimicked Fred, rising to follow the girl into the kitchen. "I can only read so many Azkranian scrolls before my head starts to hurt," the green- skinned demon grumbled as he exited the office. "Blah, blah, End of Days, blah, blah, bloodshed and terror. All this 'creatures-rising-from-the-pits-of-Hell' thing is so passe."
"Tell me about it," Harry responded dryly, kneading the back of her aching neck.
Wesley looked up from his archaic tome, offering the enthnodemonologist a weak smile. She returned the gesture, regarding the British ex-Watcher inquisitively as he returned to his reading. There was a wildness, a certain gleam in his eyes. The look of a man had that been pushed to the edge and beyond. A deep sadness seemed to surround him; some quality on his unshaven, haggard face made Harry think that this despondent melancholy was learned. An adaption. That maybe he hadn't always been so ... unhappy.
"I wish I'd known you before," she blurted out suddenly, words tumbling out unbidden. 'Good one, sister,' she mentally berated herself, turning a rosy shade of pink at Wesley's surprised expression.
"Before what, Harry?" Cool blue eyes narrowed in amused confusion.
Blushing furiously, the ethnodemonologist began to take an intense interest in the desk's grainy tabletop, studying the wooden texture with great concern. "Before, before whatever made you so sad happened," she murmured, feeling like a stupid (-nosy-) little schoolgirl. What was this, grade school? Since when did Harriet Doyle go all weak-kneed and silly at the thought of an (admittedly handsome) man she'd just met?
Wesley exhaled a deep, heavy sigh, his entire form sagging with that release. He slipped off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose slowly, methodically. Looking far older than his late-twenty something years, the supernatural investigator slouched forward with weariness. "Harry ..." he began, voice betraying that same half-hidden pain. But whether Wesley planned on spilling his life story or berating the ethnodemonologist for such a personal question was never revealed, because at that moment Fred re-entered the room, bearing several more cups of coffee.
Harry didn't miss the Brit's reaction to Fred's approach; his gaze hungrily absorbing the soft brown tendrils, delicate features and long limbs, the naked longing apparent in his eyes. Wes shifted uncomfortably, casting another look at Harry and swallowing forcefully. "Yes, well ..." he stammered, his attempt at playing casual failing miserably. "Back to the books then."
The former-Mrs. Francis Doyle felt a surge of disappointment watching Fred and Wesley chat, noting the subtle adoration on the former's features. Maybe that ... maybe she was the reason. (-Strange little family Angel's got here-) What did it matter, anyway? She'd just met the guy literally hours before; they'd barely even had time to say hello and she was already moping over Wesley's preoccupation with another girl. Another girl, she sternly reminded herself, that had known him about five million times longer than she had. Jeesh. Maybe the End of Days did funny things to people. But as she returned to a Samoan text, Harry couldn't help but once again reconsider her immediate attraction and the words she'd so awkwardly stuttered only moments before.
'I wish I'd met you before all of this ...'
(-Before her.-)
*******************
"Fred told me about the whole 'you-existing-in-the-alternate-time-I- created' thing," Cordelia announced in the silent night air. She stepped closer towards Doyle, joining him on the shadowed terrace. "I lived in that world for one day. I can't even imagine three years ..."
The Irishman fished through his jacket, producing a rumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver Zippo. Jamming the smoke into one corner of his mouth, he flicked the lighter open, the glow from the flame dancing on his serious features. The end of the cigarette burned orange, and Doyle inhaled deeply, blowing out a cloud of grey smoke. "If you're apologizin' Princess, don't bother."
If the smoking bothered Cordelia, she didn't let it show. "Don't bother?" she fumed incredulously. "You suffered for three years in a place where the Master snacked on humans like Happy Meals, a place, I might remind you, created solely by my stupidity and conceit. That is so not okay."
The former Seer took another long drag. "Ya didn't know and yea certainly didn't send me there, Cor. Wasn't no sunshine an' daisies, but they needed help and I guess I was the half-demon for tha job."
His lovely companion sighed, sympathy and regret practically radiating from her. "It's not fair, Doyle. You're like, the PTBs' bitch or something."
The Irishman had to laugh, but it was a dry, broken sound. "Maybe I deserved it."
His morose response just renewed Cordelia's frustration. (-Jeesh Doyle, cut yourself a break! Maybe your past isn't perfectly shiny, but too much drinking and one bad decision doesn't deserve emotional crucifixion!-) "Didn't we go over this already? Enough with the self-flagellation! Angel pulls it off, but you sure as Hell don't." Her light sarcasm died off, grin fading from her beautiful features. She stepped closer to the Irishman, studying his miserable expression. "What happened, Doyle? You ... you scare me like this. You're not yourself."
The ex-Messenger turned sharply, eyes flashing. His voice was low and dangerous, ragged with regret. "How would you know, darlin'?" he spat, far harsher than he meant to. "You don't even really know me anyway."
Cordelia recoiled, visibly shocked and upset. Doyle had never spoken to her like that ... never been so ... hurtful. It was a rare moment that a Chase woman was speechless, but the Irishman had just succeeded in doing what few had ever accomplished ... Sunnydale High's former May Queen couldn't think of a thing to say. "I ... I, I'm sorry Doyle," she stammered, still too astounded to even let rise her infamous temper. Her voice turned cold. "Sorry I bothered you. I should go." She turned quickly, thoughts scattered in confusion.
"'Delia."
The sound of her name, rolling off his tongue in that soft, Irish lilt was too much. The anger which had begun to boil to the surface was sated. A shiver ran through her, savouring the charming brogue that had haunted her dreams these past three years.
(-He sounds so ...sad.-)
Angel's current Seer ambled back, cautious, still smarting from the half-demon's earlier verbal cut. She reached out and gingerly touched his arm. "Doyle?"
"I'm so sorry, Cor," he sighed. "I didn't mean ta talk so harsh. I just meant that we only knew each ot'er a coupla months, and maybe I wasn't completely honest. Like I wasn't just atonin' fer turnin' my back on my fellow Brackens. Maybe there was ... ot'er stuff that needed redeemin'."
The Seer's brow furrowed. "Like what?"
Doyle squirmed, clearly uncomfortable. He flicked some ash from his cigarette, and indulged in another soothing drag. "Like ... stuff," he muttered, eyes darting everywhere but his companion's face. His mind processed furiously, trying to calculate some way out of the mess he'd made. (-Open mouth, insert foot. Good one, boyo, tryin' ta get all confessional-like about the one thing ya can't tell her.-)
Cordelia echoed the Irishman's earlier sigh, realizing that this line of questioning would lead nowhere. Doyle had clammed up completely and now stood off to her right, fidgeting nervously. The former cheerleader considered the night sky, glad to have the relative protection of the porch roof from the rain of fire. She wondered idly how much more the Hyperion could withstand. No blazes yet, but ...
Suddenly, something dawned on her; an age-old question with an answer much longed for. Without any thought to the consequences, the Seer blurted out her query: "Why did you give me the visions?" The half-demon's look of pure bafflement (and slight terror) simply confirmed her realization that sometimes a self-edit was necessary.
"Uh ... come again?" Doyle stuttered, crushing the finished cigarette beneath his boot heel.
(-Oh well. Too late now ... isn't this how I always used to do it? Cordelia "tell-it-like-it-is" Chase. Honest. Well, tactless too ... but still. At least I told the truth, even if it was brutal. I think I lost that a while ago ...- ) "I got a visit from this demon, Skip, on my birthday, and he told me you weren't supposed to pass those visions onto a regular old human. But you managed to because, uh ..." Here the young woman faltered. (-Surprise, I know you were in love with me? Cue the awkward tension!-) "Because you ... ya know ..."
"Know what?" the Irishman encouraged. "I've been wonderin' the same thing since I never intended ta pass on that skull-splittin' inheritance, so if ya want ta solve tha mystery any time this century, be my guest."
"You loved me. I got the visions because you loved me," she exploded. "The Powers That Be may control life and death, but love's out of their jurisdiction, blah, blah. That whole thing." Her tangent trailed off, and Cordelia was left with an awful sense of dread and one very agitated half-demon.
The Irishman's gaze drifted to the horizon, reliving another place, another time. (-Damn you Skip. Never could keep yer trap shut. All makes sense now, though ... -) "Because I love yea," he repeated quietly, a slow smile growing on his lips. Cordelia didn't seem to notice the dropped past tense. (-I like the sounds of that.-)
The soft orange flow of the fires lit up the current Messenger's ethereal features. She was suddenly intensely shy. "So you didn't know I'd get them?"
"Had no idea, Princess an' I'm still sorry that ya suffered so," Doyle murmured, sheepish, raking one hand through already-mussed hair. "Don't think I even realized that I, well ... um, loved yea ... 'till we kissed." He blushed boyishly, making his nervous, stuttery confession all the more charming.
Her heart fluttered at his adorable declaration. "I don't think I knew either," she responded softly, more to herself than her companion. The Irishman looked slightly confused. Cordelia sighed and strode across the patio, dimly aware of the conversation she'd had there with Angel weeks before.
(-Seems like a lifetime ago-)
The Seer gazed deeply into Doyle's bright blue eyes, surprised at how much warmth swelled within her at his presence. "The answer to your question," she chided, gliding towards the door. She stopped before the entrance, turning back to the half-demon, voice barely more than a whisper.
"I could of learned."
***********************
Connor observed the entire scene from a second-storey balcony, jealousy stirring within him. He was Cordelia's protector now; he loved her and they were going to be together. Primitive urges, borne of a boyish emotional conscience that had barely matured beyond "want" and "need". He understood that Cordy had cared for his father; comprehended that she seemed to care for this Doyle as well. But she'd chosen him ... he was her's.
And she was his.
Forever.
***********************
"But I have seen the day of your awakening boy and it's coming soon.
So go ahead and loose yourself in liquor,
and you can praise the clouded mind,
but it isn't what you are thinking
it's the course of history,
your position in line.
You are just a piece of the puzzle,
so I think you had better find your place.
And don't go blaming your knowledge on some fruit you ate.
Because there has been a great deal of discussion, yes,
about the properties of man.
Animal or angel?
You were carved from bone, but your heart it's just sand.
And the wind is going to scatter it and cover everything with love."