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An Evening With Cordelia

Doyle stood in the doorway of the hotel, watching as Angel drove his car down the street on his way to Sunnydale. He watched the car until he could see it no more. Then, even though the vehicle was gone, he continued to stand there, gazing down the road the car had just traveled. He just hoped this trip Angel was making proved to be worth it. It was easy to say that he shouldn't worry so much, that he wasn't the cause of everything that happened, that he wasn't responsible for any given outcome. Oh yeah, *that* was easy. What was hard was believing it was true. What was hard was knowing that whatever danger they were in now, and whatever danger might befall them in the future, *he* would be the one to put them there. *That* was hard.

"So, do you guess we're done moping for the moment?" Cordelia suddenly asked from behind him.     

Badly startled, Doyle turned to face her. Some oracle, he hadn't even heard- or sensed- her come up behind him. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking at him with raised eyebrows and a questioning look in her eyes. She shrugged her shoulders at him when he failed to respond; he just kept looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. "Well?"     

It occurred to Doyle that this was the first time he'd seen her all day; it was the first time he'd seen her since she'd mumbled those three little words in her sleep. *I love you*. God, she was beautiful. She was *so* beautiful. He nodded, took a deep breath, then let it out. "Yeah. All done."    

"Well, good, cause, you know, he'll be fine," Cordelia told him with another slight shrug of her shoulders.     

"I know he will."     

"So, you're not going to sit around and. . .'brood' about it. . .are you?" Cordelia wanted to know, her eyebrows once again raised in her 'you'd better not' look.     

"I. . .wasn't plannin' on it, no," Doyle answered. He was beginning to wonder just where she was going with all this. He found he couldn't read her at all, wondered if she were blocking him in some way. It wouldn't surprise him, for she, too, was linked to the *Powers That Be*. That connection could strengthen the mind in many different ways.      

"Good." Cordelia nodded at him. "Angel's had you to himself long enough. I don't need you being with him when you're, you know, not with him."     

Doyle nodded as if he understood completely. "Yeah, okay. I'll be good, Princess. I promise. There was an awkward pause. "So," he brought his hands in front of him, clasped them together and wrung them a little; it was a gesture that clearly told how ill at ease he was, "where've *you* been all day?"     

Cordelia could tell he was uncomfortable; it made him all the more endearing. She smiled at him, a smile so radiant, so perfect, it took his breath away. Her eyes sparkled as she said, "It's a surprise. Come on, I'll show you." She took his hand, started to lead him away from the door.     

"And just where would you be taking him to show him this. . .surprise?" Wesley asked suddenly. He was standing in the middle of the staircase, looking down at the oracle and the seer. The warrior, the seer and the oracle. Exactly where did he, Wesley, fit into this group? He shook his head as he walked down the stairs. Maybe he was to be the hall monitor. Or maybe he was to be the occasional voice of reason. God knew someone needed to be somewhat dispassionate around here, at least where Doyle was concerned.  "I realize that your apartment would be safe, since I know that you have no intention of inviting Saul in. It's what lies between here and there that concerns me. Not to mention the fact that Angel does not want him to leave here."     

Cordelia rolled her eyes at the Englishman. "Right, Wesley. Like I'd just take him out of here and risk his life. Hello? Do you really think I'm that stupid?"     

Wesley shook his head. "No, Cordelia, 'stupid' would not be the word I would use." No, the word was 'horny', but Wesley could not bring himself to verbalize it. "However, I am aware of the fact that you desire some time alone with Doyle. . ."     

"Which I can have right here. I mean, it's a big place. Right Wesley?" Cordelia smiled sweetly at him.      

"Yes, well. . ." Clearly remembering Doyle's earlier discomfiture at Cordelia's aggressiveness, Wesley sought out the half-demon's eyes, trying to ascertain how he felt about all this. He wasn't sure what he could do to rescue Doyle, if that was indeed what the Irishman wanted, but he would certainly try if. . .     

"It's okay, Wesley," Doyle's amused voice interrupted his thoughts. Wesley knew immediately that the new Oracle had been reading him perfectly.   

The ex-watcher blushed slightly, nodded. "Of course. Well, I'll be down here if you need me, which I'm positive you won't."     

Doyle instantly regretted his obvious amusement at Wesley's expense; it had to be difficult for him to know that he was so easily read. He also had to be feeling that he was, at times, the odd man out. Doyle knew that if he intended to ever win him over, this was not the way to do it.      

"Wesley, I'm. . ." he began earnestly.     

"Oh, come on, Doyle," Cordelia interrupted in a pleading tone of voice. "Let Wesley play watchdog, and let's go." She tugged on Doyle's hand, started to lead him toward the staircase.      

Doyle held back. "Wesley. . ."     

Wesley had to smile at him. He had to give the half-demon credit; he was trying, which was possibly more than Wesley could always say for himself. "It's all right, Doyle. Go on. Make her happy." Both Doyle and Cordelia stared at him in mild amazement. "Oh, you both know what I mean. Go on."     

Cordelia's face lit up again at the thought of her 'surprise'. "Yeah! Come on Doyle." She once again pulled on Doyle's arm, and this time he yielded, let her take him to the staircase.

Wesley watched as the two of them ascended the staircase, then disappeared from sight. "Yes. *That* is what I am. The resident watchdog." He sighed, went to the front door and locked it. He then started checking other doors and windows, making sure all was secure. Between Wolfram and Hart, Drusilla, Darla and, now, Saul, the danger was coming at them from all sides. He just hoped and prayed they could find a way to stop it.

*-*-*-*  

She led him up several flights of stairs; he wondered if the place ever ended. "Where are we goin', Princess?"     

"Almost there," she told him, then teased, "You're not *that* out of shape, are you?"     

"Well, I haven't been gettin' any regular exercise, if that's what you mean," Doyle answered with a grin. This was fun. Exhausting, but fun. It also helped him forget, well, a lot of things.      

Finally, they stopped on the ninth floor, entered the long hallway. Cordelia turned to Doyle, her eyes bright with happiness. "Okay, here we are. Now, you have to close your eyes."     

"Okay." Doyle obediently closed them.     

"All right. Here we go." Cordelia grasped both his hands, started to lead him down the hallway. "Keep them closed now."     

"I will. Just," Doyle smiled, "don't let me run into anythin', okay?"     

"Don't worry, I won't." Cordelia led him further and further down the hall, until they stopped, just outside room 926. "Okay, here we are. I'm going to open the door, but don't peek. You're not peeking, are you?"     

"No, I promise. I'm not peekin', Princess." Doyle found her excitement infectious. He had no idea what she was about to show him; she was giving him no clues, verbally or mentally. He heard her open the door to the hotel room, let her lead him inside. He heard her close the door, felt her hands on his shoulders as she turned him to face the appropriate direction.     

"Okay," she told him. "You can open your eyes now."     

Slowly, he obeyed. He opened his eyes to behold the most incredible room he had ever seen. It was beautiful, yet totally masculine, with all the right color schemes and tasteful decorations. The pictures that hung on the walls were ones that he would have picked out himself; the furniture was luxurious without being overly exorbitant. There were enough knick knacks, throwrugs and comfy looking pillows to make the room seem homey and lived in, but not so many that it appeared cluttered. There was a bookcase against one wall that held many of his favorite stories; another wall housed an entertainment center complete with TV, stereo and VCR. The room was, in a word, perfect.     

He looked at her to find her watching him, her eyes shining at his obvious admiration of her handiwork. "You did all this?" She nodded, smiled a slightly embarrassed smile, and he turned to once again stare at the gorgeous room. "It's beautiful, Cordelia." He then realized something he hadn't immediately thought of. "It's for me? You. . .did this for me?"     

Cordelia gave him a disgusted look. "Well, who else would it be for, goofy?" She rolled her eyes heavenward as she said, "Of *course* it's for you." She put an arm around his shoulders. "I told Angel you deserved the best suite in the house, and this, my little Oracle Irishman, is it. So, yeah, it's yours. . .if you want it, that is."     

Doyle was flattered, humbled and impressed, all at the same time. No wonder he hadn't seen her all day. This had taken a lot of thought, a lot of time. . .and a lot of work.   He nodded. "Who *wouldn't* want it? I never thought I'd have anythin' like this. Thank you. I love it, Cordelia." Almost as much as I love you. He didn't say the words out loud, didn't have time had he wanted to, for Cordelia had grabbed his hand and was propelling him across the room.     

"Well, this isn't all, you know," she told him excitedly. "I mean, this *is* a suite! There's more to it. Come on!"     

She took him through a door next to the bookcase to enter a sparkling clean, fully equipped kitchen. Doyle's eyes were wide with amazement as he took it all in. The off white appliances all looked new. The eggshell paint on the walls looked freshly applied, the white and blue linoleum floor looked recently laid; the blue curtains at the window appeared crisp and newly hung. The table and chairs looked new and unused, and on the table, steaming hot, was dinner: two luscious looking steaks that made Doyle's mouth water, baked potatoes with all the right trimmings, salad, and a chocolate dessert that looked too rich to eat. A bottle, which was chilling on ice, stood on a small stand next to the table. Again, the whole thing was just. . .perfect.     

Doyle turned to her; she was looking at him with some trepidation. He was quick to put her at ease, though he was almost speechless himself, "Cordelia, it's beautiful. It is. It's beyond words, really it is. It's too much though. You shouldn't have. . ."      

"Oh, yes, I should have," she interrupted him, walking to stand by the table. She gave him a slightly guilty look. "I have to confess though, Doyle, I didn't exactly *make* dinner. I didn't have time, so I. . .had it brought in. I hope that's okay." 

She was so beautiful, so dear. Words wouldn't come; Doyle simply nodded.     

"I *could* have made it, though," she told him with spirit. "And it would have been good, too."     

Doyle took a deep breath to steady himself, walked to stand in front of her, put his hands on her shoulders, looked into her lovely dark eyes. "I've no doubt of that, Princess," he said in a soft voice. "Thank you, Cordelia."     

His eyes had turned that mesmerizing silver-blue. Cordelia felt herself starting to fall into them; she knew if she didn't look away quickly, he would see everything, would know everything she was thinking and feeling. At the same time, she wanted him to know it all, she wanted to get lost in those eyes of his; she wanted to get *so* lost in them that she would never find her way back. . .would never want to.     

With effort, she tore her gaze away from his, missed his tender, understanding smile. She was flustered; her heart was beating way too fast, her breath coming in quick, short gasps. No one had ever affected her like this, and she doubted that anyone ever would again. She wondered how she'd ever managed without him this past year, realized that she hadn't really done it all that well; she'd been sad and lonely. . . more times than she cared to count.    

"We'd better eat, before it gets cold, don't you think?" she asked as she walked to the stand which held the bucket of ice, pulled the dripping bottle out of it. The look she directed at him was apologetic. "This isn't champagne; it's that sparkling grape juice, but I bet I could get some if you'd rather. . ."

Doyle shook his head, took the bottle from her, popped the cork with zero effort. "No," he told her as he poured the bubbly liquid into the wine glasses. "This is fine."    

"Okay." Cordelia nodded. It occurred to her that this was their first 'date'.  She gestured toward the chair nearest to her. "Sit down, why don't you?"    

The fact that this was, indeed, their first date had not escaped Doyle either. "No, darlin'," he told her as he walked to the chair, then held it for her. His eyes, now their normal blue, met hers as he said, "Not before you."

Cordelia's heart skipped a beat as she sat down in the offered chair, and then let Doyle help guide it up to the table. "Most men don't do this anymore, you know."     

"Well, they should." Doyle walked to the other side of the table, sat down where the other place had been set. He sat down, took his napkin from the perfect table and put it on his lap. "Just so you know, good manners are not a lost art." He reached toward a vase of flowers that had been set near his salad plate, pulled out a red rose, handed it to her. "And neither is romance, Cordelia."     

"Oh my God," Cordelia breathed as she inhaled the rose's delicate scent.     

"What?" Doyle look held a mixture of concern and amusement. "Am I too much for you?"     

"Are you kidding?" Cordelia wanted to know, her eyebrows raised as far as they would go. "No. I just wish," her face took on a slightly pouty look, "I'd cooked all this."     

Doyle had to chuckle at that. He gestured at the room around them. "I think you've done quite enough, Princess. You deserved a break." He picked up his knife and fork, cut a piece of the steak and popped it into his mouth. Cordelia giggled as he made a big show of chewing and tasting it, then swallowed it with a very unmannerly 'gulp'. He nodded his approval. "Very good. But," he smiled at her, "it can't hold a candle to your chicken soup, darlin'."     

Cordelia smiled her gratitude, then picked up her own utensils and began to eat. An hour passed as they ate the delicious meal and talked about nothing much, making the most of the enjoyable art of undemanding Smalltalk.      

Finally Doyle sat back with a contented sigh. "I can't eat anymore."     

Cordelia had long since given it up. She couldn't imagine where he put it all. Of course, eating hadn't been one of his pastimes in 'Blissville'; he had some making up to do. She gestured toward the chocolate confection that had yet to be tasted. "I guess we better wait for dessert, then, huh?"     

"If I'm gonna do it any justice, we'd better, yeah," Doyle told her.      

"Okay." Cordelia pushed back her chair, stood up beside it. "I'll show you the rest of the place then."     

Doyle's eyebrows went up about a foot. "The *rest* of the place? Cordelia, what else have you done?"     

Cordelia shrugged evasively. "You haven't seen the bedroom yet."     

Considering the way she'd been coming onto him since his return, he decided that was a rather loaded statement. "No," he told her, his eyes twinkling at her. "I haven't."

She gave him a look. "Stop."     

"Me?" he asked innocently. "Come on Cordelia, you've gotta admit it, darlin', *you're* the one who's been. . ."     

"Shut up, Doyle." Cordelia's hands had found their way to her hips; her eyes flashed dangerously at him. "Do you want to see the bedroom or not?"

He held up his hands in submission. "I do. I'm sorry, Princess." He gave her his best sad puppy dog look. "I'll behave myself, I promise."     

Cordelia shook her head, but couldn't help but smile. "You are bad. Remind me, were you always this bad?"     

Doyle nodded. "Yes. And you know it."     

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Come on."

Doyle started to get up out of the chair, then feigned being unable to do so, flopped back with an exhausted sigh. "I can't get up, Cordelia. I'm too full. Come help me."     

"Oh, please." Cordelia gave him a disgusted look, but walked over to the chair anyway, held out her hand.      

Doyle grinned up at her, took the offered hand, pulled her down onto his lap. He put his arms around her as he nodded his head up at the space around them. "All this, and I haven't kissed you even once."      

He bent his head to kiss her; his lips had just about met hers, when he felt her body shudder. He didn't need oracular insight to know that it was not a shiver of delight, but one of some repressed negative emotion. He pulled back immediately, looked at her with concern. "What's the matter, Princess? Is my timin' off? I won't kiss you if you don't want me to." He started to release her.     

Cordelia made a disgusted sound, grabbed his arms and wrapped them around her once again. "Give me a break, Doyle. You know damn well that's not it."     

He smiled slightly at her directness, but was still concerned. "So, what's goin' on?" A sudden thought struck him. "Is it a vision comin' on, then?"

"No!" Cordelia shook her head firmly. "At least, it'd better not be." Her eyes rolled heavenward, directed at the *Powers That Be*. "They'd better not even *think* about doing that to me. Not tonight."     

Doyle smiled again; with that 'give 'em hell' look on her face, he felt sure that even the *Powers* wouldn't want to cross her tonight. But that didn't answer the question at hand. "Then what?"     

Cordelia shook her head. "I don't know. It was just a. . .feeling. A bad one. Not about you kissing me," she quickly amended. "Just a bad feeling, like. . .what's that saying? About somebody walking over your grave? It was just a shuddery, icky feeling. I don't know about what." She suddenly looked at him intently, eyed him speculatively. "Hey, Mr. Oracleman, why don't you tell me? Aren't you supposed to be all psychic and stuff?" She closed her eyes, appeared to concentrate. "Go ahead. Tell me what I'm thinking, feeling."

Doyle refrained from telling her that if the radar was working, the whole being 'psychic and stuff' thing would be effortless. He wouldn't need any assistance. "Actually," he began, then stopped, hesitated, and she opened her eyes to look at him. "I'm havin' trouble readin' you tonight. I don't know if it's somethin' I'm doin' or if you're blockin' me in some way. . ."     

"Well, if I am, I'm not doing it on purpose."     

"I know, darlin'." He smiled down at her. "I don't know what it is. Maybe it has somethin' to do with your havin' the visions, with the fact that we're both linked to the *Powers That Be*." He shrugged slightly. "Maybe it's not such a bad thing, Cordy. If we're gonna be spendin' some time together- and I assume that we are. . ." He flinched slightly as Cordelia punched him lightly on the arm. "Anyway, you might get kinda tired of my knowin' what you're feelin' all the time."     

"I suppose so," Cordelia mused. "Do you suppose it'll be that way all the time?"    

Doyle shook his head. "I don't know. It might come and go, I guess. There's no way of tellin'."     

"Is there anybody you can't read at all?"     

Doyle thought about that a minute. "Well, I haven't been around that many people yet. I sensed all those poor people at the parkin' garage well enough though. Too well, in fact." He paused. "Now, Wesley's easy to read; he wears his emotions on his sleeve. You're pretty direct with *your* feelings; you don't hide them at all. It probably will come and go with you. Gunn's tough. I just get strong emotion from him, not a lot of specifics. I can't read Angel at all really. Impressions are all I get from him. . .and not strong ones at that. I don't know if it's because he's a vampire or what." He shrugged slightly. "It'll be interestin', I guess." He stared off into space, seemed lost in thought. "Very interestin'."    

Cordelia had been watching his face as he spoke. He looked vulnerable and a little scared, and he was thinking way too hard. "Hey," she said softly, startling him out of his trance. He looked down at her and she smiled at him. "All that talk, and you haven't even kissed me yet."     

He smiled back. "I guess I'd better do that then, yeah?"     

"I guess you'd better."

So he did. His arms tightened around her, hers went around his neck as their lips met, melded together. The kiss went on for several minutes, until, at last, they both had to come up for air.    

Cordelia opened her eyes, looked straight into his blue ones. "Wow."     

"You can say that again, Princess," he told her, his voice breathless.      

"Wow," she said, and Doyle laughed. She moved her hands from around his neck to his shoulders; they sat there just silently looking at each other for a minute or two. Then Cordelia heaved a contented sigh and said, "So, do you want to see the rest of the place now?"     

Leave it to Cordelia to be so direct. She obviously had something she wanted to show him. Doyle nodded. "Sure."     

"Good." Cordelia stood up and, once again, offered her hand. This time Doyle let her help pull him up.

Cordelia led him out of the kitchen back into the main room. As they passed through, she gestured toward a small hallway. "The bathroom's down there, but I haven't done much with it yet. I mean, it works and all that, but. . .it's not the way I want it. I kind of. . ." she made a face, "ran out of time."     

"Um hmm." Doyle nodded. "Not that you were *pressed* for time or anythin', right?"     

"Just a little, I guess," Cordelia countered, then stopped before a closed door on the far side of the room. She put her hand on the knob. "Okay, this is it." She opened the door, stepped back to let Doyle through. "After you, Oracleman."     

Doyle nodded his thanks as he entered the bedroom, then stopped short at what he saw, for, once again, the room was perfectly beautiful. It was tastefully decorated in varying shades of green and blue. The mahogany bed, which was a four-poster, king-sized giant, dominated one wall. It was swathed in a blue-green bedspread that was almost the color of Doyle's eyes. The curtains, which covered the large picture window that dominated another wall, were the same color and pattern as the bedspread. The walls were painted a pale, misty blue. The carpet was the same blue as in the bedspread and curtains; it all matched perfectly. Again, the pictures, accessories and decorations made the room comfortable and homey, without being overdone or flashy. There was a mahogany writing desk in one corner, two matching nightstands on either side of the bed, and a huge wardrobe/closet that dominated the third wall. It, too, was mahogany, and, like the writing desk, looked to be an antique.

Several minutes passed as Doyle stood and stared, too overwhelmed to speak.   Finally, Cordelia couldn't take it anymore. "So," she said softly. "What do you think?"     

He turned to her, his blue eyes huge with wonder and awe. "It's beautiful, Cordelia. It's all just. . .beautiful." He laughed, shook his head. "I know I keep sayin' that; you'd think I could come up with a better -or different- word. But it is. . .it's beautiful. Just like you." Cordelia actually blushed, and he went on, "But do you what's just as beautiful, Princess. . .or maybe even *more* beautiful, is that you did it all. . .for me. This took time and thought and work and. . .money. Probably a lot of money. Are you sure. . ?"     

Cordelia nodded, walked to stand beside him, linked her arm through his. "Oh yeah, Doyle. I'm sure. You're worth it. You're worth every minute, every broken nail. . .and every damn cent." She shrugged a little. "And I didn't do it all by myself, of course. I *did* have some help. A lot of help, actually."     

"Well, I'd hope so, Cordelia. You couldn't. . ." Doyle stopped, smiled as something on one of the nightstands caught his eye. He gently disentangled his arm from Cordelia's, walked over to the near nightstand and picked up the photograph they had rescued from the old office. She had cleaned it up and put it in a new gold colored frame. Doyle stood looking down at it for a couple of seconds, then looked up at her. "It looks good in here."

Cordelia nodded. "I thought so too. So do you." She walked over to the wardrobe, put her hand on the handle that opened it. "Now, why don't we see what looks good *on* you." She tugged on the handle, pulled the door open an inch or so, turned back to Doyle. "You couldn't go to the mountain, so. . .I brought it here to you." She opened up the wardrobe wide enough so that she could get her hand in, then pulled out what looked to be- Doyle held his breath- a designer suit. Which it was.  It was, in fact, an Armani.         

Cordelia turned from the wardrobe, the suit draped over one arm, immediately saw Doyle's face. "Oh, come on now, Doyle. Don't look like that. I mean, you are the oracle now. Don't you think you should dress like one?" She removed the garment from her arm, held it up. "Just try it on. Please?"     

It was on the tip of Doyle's tongue to ask her how she even began to know how an oracle should be dressed, but he thought better of it. Plus the 'please' immediately got to him. He still had to admit that he was a little disappointed, however. He knew she knew that designer suits weren't for him; he was surprised that she would want to try to change him in that way. But she'd done so much, gone so totally out of her way, so above and beyond what was necessary. . .all for him. Thus, disappointing her was totally out of the question. The *least* he could do was to try on the suit.


End first half. 2nd half coming next

















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Title: An evening with Cordelia (sequel to A chat with Spike) 
Author: Jenny Kane jkane10260@aol.com
Part: 1/1 (2nd half)
Rated: PG
Summary: As before
Spoilers: Parts of seasons 1 and 2
Feedback: Always welcome and necessary for me to continue
Distribution: Please ask.
Disclaimer: I own none of it. If I did, things would be different. Joss,
David, the WB and Mutant Enemy Productions own it all. Except my imagination,
of course.

      He took the suit from her, rolling his eyes a little as he did so. She
simply shook her head at him. He left the bedroom, went out into the hallway
to change, completely missed her knowing smile and the sparkle in her eyes.
He put on the suit, then sneaked into the huge bathroom, hoping to get a look
at himself before she did.
      He didn't know what she meant by 'I haven't had time to do anything to
it.' It looked fine to him. The color scheme was white and powder blue; the
tile floor was white, the rugs and walls were blue. The counter, sink, sunken
whirlpool tub and toilet were shiny white; they sparkled as if they'd been
recently scrubbed, which he was certain they had been. It was nicely
decorated without frilliness or fluff; pictures of shells and the seashore
graced the walls...all except one. A mirror covered the far wall; he
obviously had no trouble 'getting a look at himself'.
      He looked...all right, he guessed. It was a beautiful, dark blue suit,
well tailored, well made, and it fit him perfectly. But if clothes made the
man, or the oracle as in his case, well, then he was the exception to that
rule, for, as far as he was concerned, he still just looked like Allan
Francis Doyle. No more. No less.
      "Well, man," he told his reflection. "We'll see what the girl thinks."
      He left the bathroom, went back down the short hallway, then into the
bedroom.   Cordelia had opened the curtains, was standing at the window
looking out into the night sky. She turned when she heard him come in, smiled
when she saw him. He couldn't have looked anymore awkward and ill at ease if
he tried. 
      She couldn't call him a poor sport, though. He stood quietly, endured
her scrutiny, even turned around when she asked him to. Finally, though, he'd
had enough. "Well?" he wanted to know, raising his eyebrows in his usual
Doyle way.
      Her answer was simple, and not what he'd expected. "You look nice,
Doyle."
      "Nice?!" He couldn't believe it. Here he had voluntarily put himself
into this straightjacket, and all she could say was *nice*?
      "Okay," Cordelia acquiesced. "You look great. You do."
      "Actually, I think nice covers it rather well," he admitted with a
smile. He looked down at himself, at the beautifully tailored suit, then back
up at her. "But do you *really* think it's me, Cordelia?"
      She studied him a minute or two, then shook her head. "No. I don't."
      She hadn't moved, hadn't changed expression. He still couldn't read
her, so those two things made him a little nervous. "And, for us, that
means...what?"
      Instead of answering she walked over to the wardrobe, once again put
her hand on the handle. She turned to look at him, a gentle smile gracing her
lips. "I only bought *one* of those," she told him quietly. "Mostly because I
feel like every man should have at least one good suit, since you never know
what might come up. But for the rest of the time..."
      She slowly opened the door to the wardrobe until it was open all the
way. That was when Doyle caught his breath, for there, inside it, from end to
end, hanging from every hanger, lying on every shelf, were *his kind* of
clothes. There were blue jeans, painters' pants and Dockers. There were
button up the front shirts in all colors, some even with the loud prints he
knew she abhorred. New shoes lined the bottom of the wardrobe. There was one
pair of dress shoes, to go along with the suit, no doubt, but the rest were
just plain old black and brown shoes, like the ones he'd always worn, like
the pair he had on now. Then, for the grand finale, hanging on the inside of
the closet's doors were four new leather coats, exactly like the one he'd
leapt to his death in, except two of these were black. Tears started to
Doyle's eyes as he stood there and looked at what she'd done for him, as he
realized that she *really* cared about him. She really did.
      Cordelia's eyes were wet too as she slowly walked across the room to
stand directly in front of him. The two of them stood looking into each
other's eyes for a long moment. Then Cordelia reached up and gently touched
the lapel of his very expensive jacket. "I told you that I bought one of
these because I thought every man should have one. And, that's true, of
course. But it's not the only reason I bought it, Doyle." She paused, looked
down. Doyle reached out, gently took her chin in his hand, tilted her head up
so that she was once again looking at him. Her eyes looked back into his as
she went on, "I spent so much time and energy thinking that I wanted this,"
she tugged lightly on the jacket, "thinking that I needed this. I spent so
much time and energy on *this*, that I missed what was right in front of me.
And it wasn't until it was too late that I realized...what I'd had in you,
what I'd lost in you. But now I have you back...and I want you to understand
something, Doyle. I bought *one* of these suits, and then I went out and
bought all of that," she waved her hand in the direction of the wardrobe, "to
show you, to prove to you that it's *you* that I want. *You Doyle*. You and
no one else."
      He really didn't need to be able to read her; everything was so very
clear in her eyes. It was overwhelming. Never had he thought that this girl
would ever be standing in front of him, saying these things to him. Never had
he thought that he would be this close to her, close enough to...
      With a soft moan of desire, he pulled him to her; his lips found hers
in a passionate, loving kiss. Her body melted against his; her arms went
around his neck, deepening the kiss, pulling him as close to her as he could
possibly get. Before he knew what was happening, she had taken off his jacket
and unbuttoned his shirt. While they were still kissing, she managed to lead
him to the bed, then down onto it. They were lost in each other, lost in
passion; soon his shirt was off, and she was on top of him, kneading his
upper arms and shoulders as she kissed him. His hands were in her hair, then
down her back; he could feel her gorgeous curves through the clothes that he
had not yet attempted to remove. The kiss went on and on, their passion,
their desire for each other grew and grew...
      It wasn't until Cordelia suddenly started to fumble with the button to
his pants, that Doyle realized just how far things had gone, how far they
could possibly go from there, and that soon there would be no way to stop
them. Not that he really wanted to stop them, and yet...
      "Cordelia!" His voice was a breathless whisper from underneath her
mouth. His hands went to her shoulders; he gently pushed her away from him so
he could look into her eyes. "Cordelia..."
      "What?" her voice was husky with desire, ragged with frustration.
"Doyle, don't stop! I don't *want* you to stop!"
      Neither did he, but he recognized that things would soon be out of
control, that events would soon go past the point of no return, and he wasn't
sure that either one of them was truly ready for that.
      Cordelia certainly *thought* she was. She pulled his hands off of her
shoulders, leaned down to kiss him again, and Doyle knew that if he didn't
get up *now*, he wouldn't; at least not until after the inevitable was over.
      It took all his willpower to move, but he did it; he gently pushed her
away, eased his body out from underneath her, then off of the bed onto solid,
sane ground. He grabbed his shirt off the bed, fumbled to put it on as she
sat up in the middle of the bed, her eyes radiating a mixture of passion,
frustration, confusion and anger.
      Doyle was feeling a potpourri of feelings as well, but he had them more
under control. He knew he had to explain his actions...and fast. "Cordelia..."
      Cordelia was not in the mood. "What the hell are you doing, Doyle?
What? You suddenly don't want me? You don't think you can handle it? What?"
      That last statement rankled, but she was angry, hurt, confused, so he
ignored it. "Cordelia, I..."
      "You what?" Cordelia all but spat it out at him, and Doyle stopped in
the face of her sudden, complete change in demeanor. She was more than angry;
she was furious. Absolutely furious. She bounced off of the bed to stand at
its foot, turned on him almost viciously. He watched helplessly as what had
been beautiful and perfect only moments before now turned ugly. Hideously
ugly as it turned out, for when Cordelia next spoke, it was totally without
thought. "So what is it, Doyle? Second thoughts? Or am I just not good enough
for you?"
      Doyle's jaw dropped. "What? Cordelia, you know..."
      "What do I know, Doyle? That you're the big, bad oracle now? Yeah, I do
know that! Let's see, what else do I know?" She stopped, appeared to think
about it, as Doyle looked at her with shock and disbelief. "That the fact
that you are the big, bad link to the *Powers that Be* means that poor,
insignificant girls like me are not up to your Oracle standards?" She waved
her hands around, indicating the hotel room and all that had been done to it.
"No matter what they've done for you, right?"
      If she had hauled off and hit him as hard as she could, it wouldn't--it
couldn't--have hurt him more. He stared at her, at the anger in her, felt
sick, and felt some anger himself, although his was quieter. "Where the
*hell* is this coming from, Cordelia? What the hell did *I* do to deserve
it?" He found he couldn't sustain the anger, however, the pain was just too
great, too overwhelming to allow his anger to remain intact. He turned away
as tears started to his eyes, spilled out to run down his cheeks; he swiped
at them with an impatient hand; they were immediately replaced by others. "My
God, Cordelia," he whispered. "Do you really believe that?" He turned to face
her, agony in his eyes, his tears fully exposed. His voice was a little
louder as he repeated, "Do you *really* believe that? Do you really believe
that of me? *Of me*?" His voice broke; he had to get control of it before he
could go on, "Because if you do, Cordelia, then I don't know what the hell
we're doin' here. I don't." He then turned and started for the door.
      He had just reached the doorway when Cordelia's defenses broke, when
whatever had been blocking him from reading her disintegrated, leaving him
wide open and vulnerable to every emotion she had. He cried out, grabbed hold
of the doorjamb to keep himself from falling as the violent onslaught hit him.
      "Doyle don't go. Please don't go! Don't leave me. I didn't mean it. I
didn't! I don't believe that. I don't!" Cordelia hadn't moved from the foot
of the bed. She was devastated by what she'd done, by his tears, by the pain
in his eyes, by his righteous attempt to leave her. "Don't go, Doyle, please.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..." She broke down sobbing then, fell to her knees,
her face buried in her hands.
      It took all Doyle had to turn around and take in the scene. He wasn't
getting much coherent thought from her, and nothing that told him what was
really going on. What he *was* getting was wave after wave of pain and fear
and uncertainty and doubt. The only thing he knew for sure was that she
didn't believe what she had just said, but she *did* believe something else.
He just couldn't ascertain what it was.
      It was like battling a ferocious windstorm to cross the room and reach
her, but he did it, then dropped down onto his knees beside her. "It's okay,
Princess, it's okay." He reached out, put his arm around her, held her
gently. She leaned into his embrace, but continued to sob, didn't raise her
head from her hands. "Please, Cordelia, don't cry. It's all right, darlin'."
      "But it's not!" her choked up voice was muffled by her hands, and Doyle
felt an actual stab of pain that he knew was related to her overwrought
emotions. "It's not okay! It's not!"
      Doyle winced again. "Okay, Princess. I know you're upset, darlin', but
if we're gonna get anythin' sorted out, you're gonna have to calm down for me
a little, or I'm not gonna be able to stay. You're overwhelmin' me here."
      Cordelia immediately looked up into his face, could see the pain she
was causing him. "Okay. I'll try."  She leaned back against his arm, closed
her eyes and took some deep, shuddery breaths. Doyle relaxed as the pain
stopped, as he could feel that block between them go partially back up.
Cordelia took one last cleansing breath, then opened her eyes, looked at him
anxiously. "Better?"
      Doyle nodded. "Better."
      "Doyle, I'm so sorry! I don't..."
      Doyle stopped her before she could go on, before she could get back on
that emotional roller coaster he couldn't ride just now. "It's okay. I know
you didn't mean it. I'm not angry or anythin' like that." He tightened his
hold on her; she sighed and put her head on his shoulder. "But, Cordelia,
you're gonna hafta tell me what's really goin' on here, 'cause all that was
about...somethin'."
      "But you already know."
      Doyle shook his head. "I don't darlin'. Really I don't."
      Cordelia smiled a little. "Yes you do. You just don't *know* you do."
She took a deep breath. "It's about...him."
      Doyle still didn't get it. "Him."
      "When I said that before, about wasting all that time, about wanting
only you...I meant that." She raised her head, looked at him. "I meant that,
Doyle."
      He nodded. He could see that she did. "I believe you, Princess."
      "I wanted you to my first, Doyle. That's what I was thinking that night
on the *Quintessa* when I told you to ask me out to dinner. I wanted you to
be my first, my last, my only." She took another deep breath, let it out
slowly. "But then, you were gone, and I...did something so stupid." She
pulled out of his embrace, turned to look at him earnestly, almost
pleadingly. "I didn't love him, Doyle. I didn't! And please don't tell me you
don't know anything about this, because I know..."
      Of course she was right. He knew what had happened, but he'd had no
idea that she thought that... "Wait! Wait a minute. Are you tellin' me that
you think *this* is the reason why I stopped?"
      "Well, yeah. I mean, it must have really disappointed you. You hadn't
been gone that long, and here I...I even got pregnant."
      "He used you, Cordelia."
      "Then you *did* see it. Oh God." Cordelia covered her face with her
hands.
      Doyle grabbed her hands, gently pried them away from her eyes. He
tilted her face so that she was looking up into his. "Cordelia. I know what
happened, but I wouldn't say I *saw* anythin', okay? He was a no good scum
who took advantage of you and treated you badly and I wish I would've been
here so I coulda done somethin' about it. But I swear to you, darlin', that
neither *that* nor the oracle thing has anythin' to do with why I stopped
what was happenin' between us."
      Cordelia searched his eyes, looking for any sign that he was being less
than truthful. "The oracle thing was stupid, and I wouldn't blame you if you
hold it against me for the rest of my life. But the other...you're sure?" He
nodded. "You promise?"
      Doyle gave a gentle laugh. "I promise, Princess. And I'm not holdin' it
against you *now*, so I don't think you have to worry about it for the rest
of your life."
      "Okay. But, then, I don't understand. Why did you...oh God, you're not
suddenly gay are you?"
      "No, Cordelia. Trust me when I tell you I'm not. And I didn't want to
stop it."
      "Then why did you?"
      "I'll tell you, but I want you to answer a question for me first,"
Doyle told her.
      Cordelia looked suspicious. "What?"
      Doyle smiled. "It's just...I haven't been back that long, and you've
been pretty straightforward about the way you feel about...certain things.
I'm just wonderin', why the urgency? What's the rush?"
      Cordelia shrugged as if it were obvious. "I looked at you every day and
never saw you. I treated you badly. I took you for granted. I wasted time. I
kept looking for my rich, handsome guy in an Armani suit who I knew I could
never love." She looked up at him, smiled. "Then one night you saved my life,
while my rich and handsome guy ran away. That vampire beat the hell out you,
but the first words out of your mouth were, 'Are you okay?' That's where it
started, you know, and it just grew from there, until I stood on the deck of
that ship, looked into your eyes, *knew* what I wanted." She looked away from
him as tears flooded her eyes, rolled down her cheeks. "And then I watched
you die."
      He guessed it *was* pretty obvious when he stopped to think about it.
He drew her back into his embrace, held her tightly. "And you're afraid
you're gonna lose me again."
      Cordelia shrugged again. "The odds are against us."
      "The odds are against everybody, though, Cordelia. Everyone takes that
risk of losin' someone they care about."
      "Yeah, but they live in the *real* world...most of them, anyway,"
Cordelia told him. "But we...we live in Angel's world, Doyle. And you and I
both know, from experience, that it's a very dangerous, unstable place to be.
I mean, hello? The boss himself could suddenly lose his soul, go all
*Angelus* on us, and kill us all. Now *that's* what I call unstable."
      "Well, I certainly can't deny any of it. It's all true," Doyle agreed.
"But I can't live that way, Cordelia. I can't live every moment
just...waitin' to die. I didn't do it before. I'm not gonna do it now."
      Cordelia nodded. "I know. Me either. I just...I don't want to waste
time, Doyle. It's too precious. And you never know when that time is going to
run out."
      "I know Cordelia. But I don't think we'd be wastin' time, by spendin'
time together, by gettin' to know each other." Doyle paused. "You said it
yourself, Princess. We began about fifteen minutes before we ended. There was
never time to have a real relationship, to really get to know each other." He
turned to face her, put both hands on her shoulders; his eyes looked lovingly
into hers. "And that's what I want, Cordelia. I want a chance to court you. I
want a chance for us to get to know each other. I want to start at the
beginning of this relationship, not in the middle. That's why I stopped what
was happenin' between us, Cordy. Now, don't get me wrong, it was beautiful,
and it was excitin' and it was everythin' it was *supposed* to be, but it was
also too soon." He smiled and she caught her breath at the tenderness in that
smile. "I care about you, Cordelia, and I want to make love to you, but even
more than that, I want it to be right. I want it to happen at the right time,
in the right place, when it's right for both of us, when we're both sure." He
reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair from her face. "So, what do
you think, Princess? Do you think I'm crazy or hopelessly out of date?"
      Cordelia smiled at him, reached out a hand, gently cupped his face.
"No. I think you're hopelessly wonderful, and I know that I'm the luckiest
girl in the world to have a guy who feels the way you do, who cares about me
as much as you do."
      It occurred to him that they both had yet to say, 'I love you.' He
didn't know what was holding him back; he knew how he felt. He figured she
was afraid to say it, and...maybe he was too. That made him doubly sure that
they were truly doing the right thing in waiting. "I promise you, Cordelia,
it'll be worth it. I promise it'll be worth the wait."
      "Oh, Doyle. I have no doubt of that." Cordelia leaned up, kissed him
gently on the lips. She then pulled back, looked him lovingly in the eyes. "I
have absolutely no doubt of that."