Part 1

"I remember when she held my hand
 And we walked home alone in the rain
 How pretty her mouth, how soft her hair
 Nothing can be the same
 And there's a rose upon her breast
 Where I long to lay my head
 Her hair was so yellow, and the wine was so red
 Back in the good old world." -- Tom Waits, "Good Old World (Waltz)"

	Light.
	It filled Doyle's every sense. He could feel it on his skin,
see it trying to foce its way through his eyelids. He didn't know
it was possible to feel so warm and at peace. This, he thought,
must be what it was like in me mum's womb...
	He felt himself rushing forward, moving at an incredible speed,
but there was no more fear in him. Just perfect, perfect peace...
	...at least, until his face connected with the guy in the toga.
	He bounced away and saw who he'd hit; it was a man with a blue
and gold face, smirking cruelly at him. He groaned. This was the more
insufferable of the Oracles.
	"And just where do you think you're going?" he asked.
	"Um...well, y'know, since I'm a bit dead at the moment, I figured
I'd check out the afterlife, yeah?"
	"Mmmmm...no." The Oracle leaned in closer to him. "I'm afraid The
Powers That Be have decreed that you're not done on the earthly plane yet."
	"Well, that'll be a bit of a problem," Doyle said. "Since my body
was just, I dunno, turned inta little bits of light or whatever."
	"Oh, it's not a problem at all," the Oracle said. "Don't worry.
Your contact will explain it all to you. Have a nice trip."
	And with that, Doyle found himself falling, buffeted by cold winds.

	Angel stepped out of the elevator and saw exactly what he'd been
hoping he wouldn't. Cordelia was still sitting on the office couch,
watching Doyle on the commercial they'd taped yesterday morning.
	"Is that it?" Doyle asked hesitantly on the screen. "Am I done?"
	"Cordelia," Angel said softly. "Come on. Turn it off."
	Cordelia said nothing; she simply hit the rewind button. On the
screen, Doyle jittered in place as the tape rewound.
	"Cordelia."
	No response.
	"Do you think for one minute that he'd want you to sit here like--"
	"Do you think," she said very quietly, "that he cared what I want?"
She looked up at him, her eyes puffy and pink. "He didn't even tell me,
Angel. He didn't tell me he was a demon, he didn't tell me how he felt..."
She sniffled. "Selfish bastard."
	Angel sank into the seat next to her.
	"And now I can't stop crying," she continued. "Just because he went
and, and sacrificed himself for everyone, and...we don't even get to bury
him, Angel."
	"There's nothing to bury," Angel said as gently as he could.
	"I know, I just...I just wish he was here right now."
	As she said it, the spectral form of Doyle plummeted through the
ceiling and landed at her feet in a rude heap. Cordelia and Angel
completely failed to spring back in surprise.
	"I know," Angel said. "I wish that too."
	"That poncey little bastard!" Doyle snarled as he picked himself
up. "If I ever get me hands on that toga-wearin' sack of--"
	"It's not like those damn Oracles were any help," Angel said with
sudden venom.
	"Yeah, that's what I'm sayin', man," Doyle said, brushing himself
off. He looked at them. They were both gazing at his image on the TV.
"Guys? Hello?"
	He turned and looked at the TV. He grimaced. "Christ, I'm not that
pale in real life, am I?" He turned back to his friends. "Hey! Man comes
back from dead right in front of you and you don't blink an eye? Come on,
man, this is...is..." A thought occured to him. He waved a hand in front
of Cordelia's eyes. Nothing. Ditto for Angel.
	He walked over to the window and breathed on it. No fog.
	"Aw, shite," he muttered.

	"This is a bad idea," Doyle said as they approached the door of his
dingy apartment. He'd tagged along because...well, what else were dead
people supposed to do?
	"This is a bad idea," Cordelia repeated.
	"We've got to clean his stuff out,"Angel said, fiddling with the
lock. "If we don't, it'll get junked. Wouldn't you rather have something
to remember him by?"
	"Well, his shirts are burned into my memory..."
	"Those shirts are classics!" Doyle protested.
	"I dunno," Angel said. "They weren't that bad."
	Cordelia looked at him as though he'd said something like "You
know, that Benito Mussolini was an okay joe once you got to know him."
	"Yes, they were!"
	"Yeah...they were." Angel shook his head. "Anyway..."
	The door came open. Cordy tried to walk in, but was restrained
by Angel.
	"Someone's here." He could hear the sound of...running water?
What was that? Then the toilet flushed.
	"Oh, that's great," Doyle said. "I haven't been dead a day an'
already someone's markin' their territory in my place!"
	"Be ready to run," Angel warned. The bathroom door opened.
There, zipping up his pants, was a figure in an ugly shirt, leather
jacket, plaid pants, bowling shoes and fedora. He gave Angel a quick
nod.
	"Hey, daddio," he said.
	"Whistler," Angel replied.
	"Whistler?" Cordelia asked.
	"Whistler?!" Doyle brayed. "Ye filthy vulture!"
	"That's me," the demon said, doffing his hat. "Who's the doll?"
	"Back off, you ferrety bastard!" Doyle yelled.
	"Whistler, this is Cordelia, my..." He looked at her, searching
for the word. "Assistant?"
	"I suppose," Cordelia said.
	"Cordelia, this is Whistler. He's sort of an old teacher of mine."
	"In a 'two plus two equals four' way, or in a 'what kind of noise
do kittens make when you crush them with hammers' way?"
	"More of a savin' souls way," Whistler said, walking up to her and
offering his hand. "Pleasetameetcha."
	"I wouldn't," Doyle muttered.
	"I don't think so," Cordy said.
	"It's okay! I washed!"
	"Whistler, what are you doing here?"
	"Well, I was in town for the big game."
	They looked confused.
	"What, the playoffs?"
	"Nah, a guy named Reckless Ned runs a big crap game out here. Didn't
do too bad...'least, until the Scourge showed up and tried to wipe out half
the players. When I heard what happened on the boat, I figured it might be
an opportune time to pay a visit. I thought Doyle could lead me to you.
He's an old buddy of mine."
	"Old buddy? Ya criminal bastard!"
	"Doyle's..." Cordelia trailed off.
	"Yeah, I know," Whistler said kindly. "He and I worked for the same
people, ya know?"
	"The Powers That Be," Angel said.
	"D'ya always gotta say that?" Doyle said, irritated. "We all know
it's the bloody Powers That Be. Ya don't need ta say it every time--"
	"So is he...okay?" Cordelia asked.
	"Ya mean is he feelin' a little warm? Relax, toots. He's feelin'
right at home." Whistler looked in Doyle's direction. Right into his
eyes, in fact.
	"Wait a tic," Doyle said. "Can you see me? If ya can see me,
scratch your nose!"
	Whistler smirked. "Anyway, I thought I'd drop by and see what
was what."
	"Scratch it, you weasel piece of--"
	"You know, see how things are going."
	"You utter bastard," Doyle snarled. "Ya think this is funny,
do ya?"
	Whistler rolled his eyes and scratched his nose. Doyle sighed
with relief.
	"Yeah. Great," Angel said, wondering why he was so relieved to
see Whistler scratching his nose. "Well, we're gonna pack this stuff
up, so if you're not gonna help, can you give us a little room?"
	"Tell you what," Whistler said. "I'll take a little stroll
around the block. Be right back."
	The demon walked out, Doyle's phantom right behind him.
	"Creepy," Cordelia muttered. "And what was with his eyes?
They were wandering all over the room..."

	"Old buddy?!" Doyle screamed.
	"What, we're not buddies now that you're dead?"
	"You stuck me with a $500 tab at Mab's Place! You tried ta
swindle me on that McKinney deal! Old buddy, my arse!"
	"Hey, I paid ya back the five hundred. And McKinney was
gonna try and kill you anyway."
	"Well, we'll never know now," Doyle said as they walked
down the stairs. "Spill it. What the hell's happened to me?"
	"You died, man. That's some memory you got."
	"Do I look like I'm in the mood for the patented Whistler
wit? I mean, why am I back here?"
	"You're here to help. Help those two. Listen, you get anything
off the dame before you kicked? Because daaaaamn." Whistler leered
at his invisible companion.
	"She wouldn't touch you with a ten foot pole. But she might
beat the crap outta ye with it if ye talk to her like that."
	They stepped out into the sunshine, or at least as much of it
as could penetrate the buildings on Doyle's block.
	"So how am I s'posed to help anybody, man?" Doyle asked. "They
can't see me, they can't hear me..."
	"Oh, they can hear ya," Whistler said, reaching into his coat
and bringing out a pack of smokes. "I mean, maybe they don't hear what
yer sayin' word for word, but they get the gist. It's a subliminal
kinda thing."
	"Great. I get ta be the voice in their head."
	"Aw, quitcher bitchin'," Whistler said. "You'd be bored stupid
in the afterlife."
	"This sucks," Doyle growled. "No place te live, no one can see
me, I can't touch anything..."
	"Sure ya can! I mean, it takes a little while to learn, but...
all right, try and pick up this cig."
	Doyle reached out; his hand went through the cigarette.
	"Now ya see whatcha did there? You reached out with yer hand.
The thing is, you don't have any hands, man. I mean, I see you in
your body, right, but that's because that's how you picture yourself.
It's a representation."
	"I don't get it."
	"You ain't got no body. You got no boundaries, all right? Now
try it again. And this time, instead of trying to physically grab the
cig, I want you to visualize it in yer hand."
	Doyle sighed and closed his apparently non-existent eyes. He
pictured it; the cigarette lifting itself out of Whistler's fingers
and landing in his palm. Or where his palm would be. Or...
	He opened his eyes just in time to see the cigarette, which had
been floating over his hand, drop through it to the ground below.
	"Whoa."
	"There is no spoon," Whistler said, grinning. "C'mon, we better
get back up there before the doll finds that stack of Playboys you've
been addin' to since 1983."
	"Stack of--aw, bloody hell!" Doyle went barrelling back towards his
building.

	Cordelia was peering at a medium-sized collection of CDs. The
names were almost entirely unfamiliar to her.
	"The Pogues," she said. "What exactly is a Pogue?"
	"It's Gaelic," Angel said, stuffing Doyle's clothes into a suitcase.
"They're an Irish band. It's short for 'Pogue mahone.'"
	"And what's that?"
	"Kiss my ass," Angel said mildly.
	"Well, screw you too!" Cordy said indignantly. "Just because I don't
speak your native tongue--"
	"Cordy, that's what 'Pogue mahone' means." He smiled. "I remember
seeing them in New York about a decade ago or so. I was chasing this really
huge rat--"
	"Have I mentioned I love it when your stories start like this?"
Cordelia moaned.
	"--and I ended up stumbling into this little dive where they were
playing. Reminded me of home."
	"Really?"
	"Drunken arguments, fights and good tunes. That's what my home was
like, anyway. Make sure you grab those. I haven't heard them in a while."
	"Wait, here's another one. Shane MacGowan and the Popes."
	"Those too."
	Cordelia lifted one of the CDs off of the shelf and gasped at the
cover. The album was titled "The Snake," and bore a picture of a bearded
young man with a face like a hatchet, and roughly half-a-dozen teeth.
	"Oh, puke!" she said, showing the CD to Angel.
	"Yep, that's him. Sings just like he looks, too."
	"Ucch! Give me the guy from Bush any day." She put the CD back and
looked at Doyle's dresser. There were a couple of photos; one of him and
Harry, his ex-wife. They both looked terribly young and terribly happy.
The other was Cordelia standing between Doyle and Angel. The sun shone
on their faces.
	"Oh, wow," she murmured. She recognized it; this picture had been
taken by Oz on the day Angel had received The Ring of Amara, which allowed
a vampire to walk in the sunlight. She pulled the picture out of the frame
and pocketed it, guessing that Angel might not want to be confronted with it.
	"Wanna keep the books?" she called out.
	"Pack it all," Angel said. "I called Harry last night; she's flying
in today. She gets first crack at all this stuff."
	"God...I hate this."
	"What's not to hate?"
	"I'm gonna check the closet," Cordelia said, turning towards it. As
she did, Doyle phased through the wall.
	"NO!" he cried. "You DON'T want to do that!"
	"Uh...no, I'm not," she said, sitting on the bed.
	"Why not?"
	"I don't know," she said. "I just got a really strange feeling, like...
like something didn't want me to go in there."
	Angel walked in, looking concerned.
	"Bad vibes?"
	"No. It's...it's weird. It reminds me of something..."
	"Hey there!" Whistler said. "Need help packing?"
	"Uh...yeah," Angel said. "We were just gonna do the closet..."
	"I got it," Whistler said. "You guys go about your business..."
	"No, really, it's no--"
	"Let him do it, please!" Doyle said.
	"Um...that's okay," Angel said, pulling Cordy away. "We'll be in the
kitchen..."
	"Why will we be in the kitchen?"
	"I'm not sure," Angel replied. "Come on."

	It was several hours before everything was boxed up.
	"Christ, look at this," Doyle said, looking at the small pile of boxes.
"My life. I always hoped that, y'know, I'd have enough books an' such for a
lending library by the time I kicked."
	"I could start one with the porn," Whistler commented. "Ssshh, here
they come..."
	"That's that," Angel said, walking back into the room. "Cordelia's
backing the car up outside."
	"You poor bastard," Doyle muttered.
	"You can handle the car, right?"
	"Ya want me to drive it?" Whistler asked.
	"Instead of Cordelia? Yes."
	"Sure thing, kid." Whistler looked at the boxes. "So what now?"
	"Now we get all this stuff back to the office, we wait for Harry to
show up, and...we just move on."
	"Marvelous," Doyle muttered. "I don't even get a friggin' funeral."
	"I don't know what else to do," Angel said.
	"You could have a wake," Whistler commented.
	"We--hmmm. I don't know," Angel said. "We don't really know enough
of Doyle's friends to--"
	"YOU NEED TO HAVE A WAKE!" Doyle yelled. "AN IRISH WAKE! WITH LOTS
OF BOOZE!"
	"Actually, that's not a bad idea," Angel said. "An Irish wake.
Haven't been to one of those since...well, since my own, now that I come
to think of it." He grinned. "No, wait. I was at Brendan Behan's."
	"Sure ya were," Doyle said, smiling. From outside, there was a long
honk.
	"Master's voice," Whistler said. "You need me to--"
	Before Whistler could move, Angel had the entire pile in his arms.
	"Just guide me towards the stairs, will you?" he asked, walking out
carefully.
	"See?" Whistler whispered to Doyle. "Just gotta focus your will.
Come on, we've still got a little bit to talk about yet."
	"Heh," Doyle said. "Goin' to me own wake. Bet Brendan Behan never
did that..."

Part Two

All of this is copyright Joss Whedon, except the stuff that isn't.