Sleepless

A/N: I guess it doesn't count if I say "Look! I write more than Buffy!" when I've taken to writing Angel as well, does it? No. Probably not. My yearly Buffy marathon inevitably leads into an Angel followup, and I don't think I'm alone in the assertion that Doyle was a brilliant character. So we might be seeing more from this front in the coming days – possibly something more substantial than wandering one-shots! (Or not.) For the sake of argument, this is set sometime after Parting Gifts and before Expecting. Enjoy!

One downside – one of an innumerable amount of downsides, mind – of being a seer is the insomnia. The moment that first vision hits, bam. Your sleep schedule is shot to hell. Cordelia never could quite put her finger on why. Yes, the visions themselves were usually disorienting and sort of nightmarish, but she was no delicate, wilting flower. She was one tough-ass Sunnydale bitch. That whole fiasco with the mayor eating the principal and the explosion and all the goo? Sure as hell didn't lose any sleep over that. A couple of wheedling migraines, though, and 2 AM saw Cordy staring hopelessly at the ceiling night after night. Didn't seem fair.

It was hot that night, though. That was probably part of it. Cordelia was definitely a warm weather sort of girl, but the heat wave had been holding LA hostage for going on two weeks, and she was getting sick of it. The air conditioning was sputtering its way into the uselessness of old age, and her ceiling fan, softly rattling with the effort of rotating at top speed, was not much relief. As far as the rest of the world knew, Cordelia Chase was incapable of something as base and mannish as perspiration, and it was going to stay that way. The revelation that a ribbon of sweat was rolling down her perfect forehead would never leave that room. As long as Dennis kept quiet, anyway, and who was he going to tell?

It never used to be like this, Cordelia was thinking. Heat aside, her mind was buzzing, as it so often did when she found herself alone. Back in high school, when the world was ending every other week? She never had any trouble sorting out her thoughts. Now it was an increasingly rare occurrence when Cordy could find any peace at all. She was just so restless. All the time.

In frustration, she let loose a guttural sort of growl and sat up. Perched casually at the foot of her bed, Doyle offered her a smile.

"We've got t'stop meetin' like this," he informed her.

"Oh, God," Cordelia moaned. "I'm too tired for this. Go away. Shoo."

"Now is that any way t'speak t'a man that's traveled as far as I have just t'see ya?" Doyle asked, looking hurt. "Surely them rich folks y'grew up with knocked some manners into that pretty little noggin."

"You should talk! You have all the social graces of a rabid, decomposing yak. And I'll ask you not to bring my family into this, thank you." Cordelia crossed her arms primly and gave her departed friend a look that meant business. Not that he paid her any mind.

"Is that a new end table?" he was busy wondering.

"Ooh, yeah! I picked it up for an absolute steal at an estate stale. Totally the secret to interior design on a shoestring budget, by the way."

"I like it. Pulls the space together quite nicely."

"I know, right?" It was a moment before Cordelia realized she'd been derailed. Agitation rippled through every inch of her frame. "You're insufferable."

"And you're sweaty," he shot back.

"Well you're dead!"

Doyle paused before responding. When he did, his expression had sobered to something more mature and subdued, acceptance mixed with affection. "That I am."

They sat in silence for a moment or two, listening to the hum of Cordelia's fan. She was avoiding his gaze, but it was understandable in such a situation, she felt. Sort of exceptional circumstances. Cordelia crossed her legs and fiddled with her bracelet, wondering what she was supposed to say. How did one carry on a conversation with one's own stress-induced hallucination? This was the sort of thing they really should have gone over in health class.

"So, how's that working out for you?" she asked at last.

"Come again?"

"The whole being dead thing."

"Oh! Well, y'know, s'really not that bad." Doyle wore a distant approximation of Angel's pensive-face as he considered the question. "The worst part was the dying itself. I mean, I guess I chose an unusually painful way t'go out."

"Your skin did appear to melt off," Cordelia contributed.

"Wouldn't recommend it. The actual bein' dead, though? There are worse things. Shufflin' off the mortal coil's the most natural thing in the world, when you think about it."

"Hey," Cordelia snapped, grabbing a pillow and wrapping her arms around it, as if it were a feathery shield. "Are you here to haunt me and try to convince me to commit suicide? Because I've already been down that route with one cantankerous old ghost and I think you'll remember that it didn't end well for her."

Doyle was laughing. "Lord, Cordy, you are a piece o'work. You didn't pay me any mind while I was breathin'. Even if I was lookin' to undo m'grand sacrifice by annoyin' you t'death, why would I assume you'd listen t'me now?"

Cordelia glared at him through narrowed eyes. It was solid logic.

"So why?" she demanded. "You keep showing up like this. What's up with that? Are you, like, legitimately ghostly or am I just losing my mind? Because, I mean, if you're actually haunting me, it wouldn't exactly be my first exorcism."

He shrugged. "Dunno. Could be either, I s'pose. Hard t'say. I guess it could be that we have some sorta link between realms, seein' as you carry m'gift and all."

"Yeah, thanks for that, by the way," Cordy drawled. "Nearly got my eyes gouged out by a melon baller on my first day as resident psychic."

"S'probably more likely that you're losin' your mind, though."

Cordelia smacked him with the pillow in her arms. It hit him with a whumph, and he seemed solid enough. That was encouraging. Her visitor yelped a muffled plea for clemency, and, gracious as she was, Cordelia obliged and halted the onslaught. For the moment.

"Y'really should look into some anger management," Doyle informed her with a huff. Cordelia made a face. Maturity was not something that extended to the grave, apparently. "Still got yourself a ghostly roommate?"

"Two, apparently, if you're planning on sticking around. Dennis is a lot quieter, though."

"Nah, y'know I can't be doin' that. Sort of bendin' the rules just by bein' here now, you know?"

"If you're actually here," Cordelia replied. Some of her indignation was evaporating, and she seemed a little deflated in its wake. The goal here was to not think too hard about what was happening. Sarcastic detachment worked well enough in Sunnydale. Just look at Oz.

But with a sad smile, Doyle reached out and ran his thumb along Cordelia's cheek, the way a priest might bow at the cross. Cordy's eyes fluttered shut for half a heartbeat as a deep, wrenching ache passed through her. Felt real enough to her.

"You're a real jerk, you know?" she whispered, determined not to choke on her words. Doyle laughed silently.

"I know. I know, princess. I'm sorry." With some amount of liberty, he brushed the curtain of hair away from her face. "Y'know I'd've protected you from it if I could. S'not going to be fun, wading through it all."

"Oh, so you're making massive understatements now. Nice. Good way to change up the act."

"Y'can't sarcasm your way out of this one, you lovely, fussy thing." He sounded the same. All affection, amusement and exasperation, carefully arranged to mask the note of regret. Like no time had passed at all. "It don't please me anymore'n it does you, y'know. Here I'd just gone and gotten a date."

"I'm dating a photographer," Cordelia informed him, petulantly. Doyle pressed a palm to his heart as if mortally wounded. Which... well, technically speaking. "A rich one. With fashion sense. And a real car."

"Well you go an' have fun with that big ol' sack o'boring, Cordy. Just remember when Valentine's rolls around. He'll getcha diamonds, but only I gotcha eyes worthy o'the melon baller." Doyle winked, and in spite of herself, Cordelia giggled. He had a point.

"You know," the girl mused, affection mixing with her lamentation, "you really did take off too soon. We really might have been something."

"We were," Doyle assured her. "Trust me on that one. Nearly thirty years I wandered this earth, and then you come along and make me feel alive. That was somethin'."

It was her turn to sober. "Yeah. And then you died."

"Oh, come on now. It's not s'bad as all that, then. You're still stompin' around, annoyin' Angel and makin' an unholy racket. That's pretty satisfyin' for me. And besides." He grinned. Cordelia missed that grin. "Maybe I'll wait around for ya. It's only, what, fifty, sixty years?"

"Ew, creepy much! Doyle!" She slapped him repeatedly on the shoulder, happy to wear her shrill tone of protest. "When girls say they want to hear romantic things, 'I'll wait until you die old and wrinkled' really doesn't count!"

He leaned in, close enough for his lips to brush her ear. "It'd be worth the wait."

Apparently dying had provided the Irishman with a spine.

As she was mid-protest, Doyle caught her flailing fists and planted a kiss, barely a whisper of a thing, on her forehead. It softened Cordelia considerably, and she relaxed into his grip, eyes locked on his. He smiled. She tried to return it.

"Come on, now," he murmured. "Make a dead man happy. Let's see that smile o'yours once more, princess."

Somehow, Cordelia dragged it up and flashed him her best. And she meant it.

"Get some sleep, darlin'. You're a proper bear without those eight hours."

"Stay," she murmured. "Just for a while."

Doyle's apparition considered this, even going so far as to rub his chin thoughtfully. "Well, I s'pose I could spare a bit longer to lay in your bed. I mean, when duty calls."

"You're even a pervert when you don't exist."

"Guilty."

So it was that Cordelia Chase stretched out across her bed on the hottest night of the year and pulled a dead man close. His arm wrapped languidly around her midsection and his nose found solace in the small of her neck. She could feel the weight of him. She could feel the warmth. He smelled as he always had, some not unpleasant mix of scotch, soap and sweat, something all together manly, and Cordelia tried to memorize it as her mind finally calmed. It seemed real. Not a trick, not a phantom or a brain seizure. Phantoms didn't leave their breath on your skin. They didn't twine their fingers with yours, or run their thumb along the ridge of your hand. Phantoms didn't hum unfamiliar lullabies. They didn't cradle you as you drifted away into peace and certainty.

When morning came, Cordelia was alone.

She wept.