Chapter Ten Note: This chapter is set during the "Angel" episodes
"She," written by David Greenwalt and Marti Noxon, and "I've Got You Under My Skin," written by Jeannine Renshaw. Some dialogue is taken from the episodes.
CORDELIA
The man has no dignity. I mean, Angel only had to say, "You want a job," and he was like, "Yes, please!" And then the tears. Really.
"There is, ah, something in my eye," Wesley stammered.
"Oh, don't go getting all sappy." I didn't get to say much more, since I felt the freight-train roar of a vision coming on.
That's twice now that Wesley has done the "It's allergies, it's something in my eye" routine. The man is such a wuss. I don't remember him being like that in Sunnydale at all.
The first time was when I told him, after that whole thing with the demon getting me pregnant and everything, that I now have two people I trust absolutely with my life.
Yeah, that's true. I do have two.
It should have been three.
I don't mention his name much. Wesley winces a little when I do, like after the vision with the exploding eyeballs in surround-yick, when I said, "Thank you Doyle."
Even in sarcasm, it hurts. So Angel tries to be nice about it and not remind Wesley.
Correction. Might as well admit it. We try not to remind ourselves.
But, Angel hired Wesley. So okay, fine. I don't mind that. It turns out that Wesley's not that much of a pain to have around, after all.
Things were fairly cool until I tried to get him to eat the brownies I baked, which nobody ever did eat, because Angel just had to slip and call Wesley "Doyle," and then I lost my appetite.
I knew that Angel and I were going to have to talk about it.
I just didn't know how to start.
ANGEL
"Pretend to read any good books lately?" she asked me.
"Cordelia. I thought you went home."
She gave me a look as she sat down. She wasn't going to be put off any longer, I know. But I didn't want to talk, and I didn't want to listen to her talk about him, either.
How many months are left? How many days? He's not here, and I'm being selfish.
I brought him back for the wrong reasons, I know. I didn't bring him back for his own sake. I brought him back for mine.
He's probably having a great time out there, making the rounds of the bars and the racetracks, doing all of the things that he enjoys while he still can. I shouldn't begrudge him one moment of it, but I do. I want him to be here, right here, with me.
I know that she felt the same way, at least then. I'm not sure how she feels any more.
She's probably going to tell me all about how she feels, and I'm not sure I want to hear it.
Do I want to hear that she feels the same way that I do? Or that she doesn't? Would it make a difference?
"You called him Doyle."
"It just ... happened. I hope Wesley is okay with it."
"Oh, who cares about him! This is about Doyle. You never say his name."
"I say it."
She doesn't know how often I say it, when I'm alone, talking to someone who isn't there. I'm not fool enough to tell her that.
"No, you don't." Then she started yammering something about me being "unflappable." I wasn't paying a lot of attention any more.
She wanted me to talk about it, about how I feel. She didn't know what she was asking me.
She's strong, she's young and resilient. She's getting over it already. By this time next year, she won't think about him very often, I'm sure.
I'll never stop, not even after she has died of old age in her sleep.
Finally I was able to get out the words, "I miss him."
"Me, too."
I think I would actually have told her, if we'd been given enough time. I might have told her how hard it is to get through the day and the night, wondering where he is, wondering if he is thinking of me the way I'm thinking of him. She has no idea about the way it is that I'm thinking of him.
It would have been an unfair burden on her. She doesn't need to know that kind of thing. Like the kids say, "too much information."
But I might have told her anyway, once I started talking. Once I began, once I tried to explain how much I'd been around death for so long, and why this was so different, this time, why this was the one that I just couldn't get over .... maybe I wouldn't have stopped until I told her everything.
I think she would have understood.
But I was just warming up to start talking about it when the vision hit her, and that was the end of that conversation.
DOYLE
After that phone call, I almost went back. I even went as far as the building.
I didn't go in.
I ended up watching from across the street for awhile that night. There was a lot going on, it seemed, with everybody bustling busily in and out. There were some people I didn't know, looked like a child and his parents, as far as I could tell.
I lit up a cigarette while I watched, but I had to put it out. Between the glow of the cigarette and the sound of my coughing, there was too much chance somebody would notice me.
I wasn't ready for them to notice me yet. I wasn't sure if I'd ever be.
I more or less figured the lungs would be the first to go. I've been smoking on and off since I was twelve years old. So, the cough getting worse didn't surprise me any.
There was still time though. I wasn't yet done.
Cordelia left in a rush, and then she came hurrying back, carrying some poor imitation of a Shorshack box. Probably got it from Rick, who knows an ignorant sucker when he sees one.
I started walking toward the building then, without intending to do it. If they were dealing with some kind of demon possession, maybe they could use my help.
Then I started coughing again, and I stopped walking.
I'd only be a distraction for Angel, a distraction that could get him, or Cordelia, killed. He'd start worrying about me, trying to protect me, and we'd be back again where we were.
Of course, if the interruption only got whatshisname killed, I'd shed no tears for that. But I couldn't chance it, not with other lives involved.
Showing up now, while they're dealing with a crisis, would be pushing my luck.
My luck has a way of running out.
WESLEY
Even the demons know that I'm just a poor substitute.
The exorcism did not go well. The demon inside the boy could skim the surface of our minds, reading our thoughts, or at least some of our thoughts.
That made the experience difficult, to say the least.
"What makes you think these people want you around any more than the others did?" the demon jeered.
"Because I invited him here," Angel said.
"Then you're stupider than he is. Tell him how you plan to kill him," it went on, taunting us both. "He's more afraid of you than he is of me."
That was worse than what it said about my father, worse than what it said about the Council.
Mixing truth with lies - that's more poisonous than either one.
It didn't know everything, but it knew enough. It started in on Angel, and there wasn't much doubt what had been at the surface of his mind.
"Guess who's here, Angel. He's talking to me right now. Doyle wants to know why you can't protect him."
Nothing was going to stop Angel from taking part in the exorcism after that, no matter what the cross did to his hand. You could see that it was personal now.
"You're letting him die. Just like he's gonna let me die. Aren't you, daddy? Two great protectors."
"You're wrong," Angel said with icy calm. "There's nobody here now who's going to die."
He was right, as usual, at least for the time being. But after it was all over, after we'd defeated the demon and saved the family from the boy himself, I couldn't shake the realization of the way the demon had gone wrong.
Doyle wasn't there, and yet, he was there, in Angel's mind. I suspect that in some ways, he remains far more present, far more alive to Angel than I am.
Perhaps he always will be.
The demon could sense my fear, but not what it was that I feared most.
It wasn't death, even at Angel's hands, should he ever revert to what he once was. I think I've passed beyond that particular fear now.
What I fear most is that the time will come when someone will say "Guess who's here" again.
