Someone once described death as the next great adventure.
They were stupid. And wrong.
Turns out that just as there are an infinite number of hell-based dimensions, there are an equal and infinite number of heavenly dimensions. Cosmic balance, and all that. Some people went off to be happy and glowy and got their little harps and all; others slipped into lack-of-consciousness, true peace, true rest. Some people were shunted off to the world without shrimp and were the happiest bastards ever.
For Doyle, it meant a place with an unyielding supply of good liquor, a few books to pass the time, and an old battered television set that played the lives of Angel and his gang as if it were a never-ending soap opera. Doyle could turn it off if he wanted, but he was bored if he did, so he left it on.
The worst part about having your life cut off right in your prime, just as you were beginning to make something of yourself, had things worth sticking around for, was not having anyone to share the afterlife with. Everyone Doyle loved was still alive, damn their eyes. So he was relegated to the sidelines, watching things pass and being unable to affect change at all, ranting at the television screen like he did at that old Dawson's Creek show he never admitted to watching.
God, he hated Cordy's shoes. And the fellow that sort of randomly replaced him, Wyndam-Price or whatever, he was something of a git. He liked that Gunn one, though, had a real tenacity.
Doyle didn't like the feel of this whole Wolfram & Hart business; they'd been on the scene for a long time, directing things subtly from the backend. Everyone within a thousand dimensions had heard of the bastards, of the damage they could wreak. And still get their damned tax breaks.
Doyle kicked his feet up on the sofa, crossing his arms over his chest; his beer balanced precariously over the side of the couch and dangling from his fingers. It was a good thing he could sleep, because a million hours of watching Angel Investigations was only so interesting. It got old making snarky comments about Angel's hair after awhile.
Still, though, the nice thing about this television was that it came with a rather nifty remote, that let him zoom in and out and switch to different people, follow them around. It was always entertaining to watch Cordy and Angel go at it; he always hoped for a big row that would take up a couple hours of backbiting and glares, because then he could tell himself he didn't miss it too badly.
But then Cordy would go home, and let herself into her apartment. Dennis would bring her a glass of wine, and she'd turn on the radio and read a magazine or do the dishes or something. He loved it when she fooled with her hair, pulling it back and up and twisty.
When she had a vision, it felt like his heart was being wrenched from his chest. He didn't know that was going to happen. Connections to the Powers That Be don't get an instruction manual, and all. But oh, it hurt, because the last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt Cordelia.
It was sadly ironic that it was, exactly, the last thing he did.
Doyle's eyes closed slowly, and his breathing evened out; the television was still blaring in the background, Angel stomping around in a snit and Gunn cleaning the axes; Wesley was reading a book, and Cordy was checking her email on the computer. It was just another day for them; just another day for Doyle.
words © SA. characters, show, and people not mine. no infringement is intended.