Part 2

"The Irish are often nervous about having the appropriate face for the
 occasion. They have to be happy at weddings, which is a strain, so
 they get depressed; they have to be sad at funerals, which is easy, so
 they get happy." -- Peggy Noonan

	Mab's Place sat huddled between a used bookstore and a massage
parlor. The buildings were close together, as though trying to share
warmth. It was 2 a.m. by the time Whistler arrived at the front door.
He tried it; locked. He knocked.
	A small peephole slid open, and a set of eyes with two pupils in
each eye glared down at him.
	"Private function," something on the other side growled.
	"Tell Mab Whistler's here to see her."
	"Don't know no Mab."
	"Come on, man, don't bust my chops," Whistler said. "The sign
says Mab's Place. I know her. She's always here this time of night."
	"Mab's not here," the thing on the other side of the door said.
	Whistler rolled his eyes and doffed his hat.
	"All right. Here's my credentials."
	The two-pupiled eyes widened as Whistler's face changed into
something best left undescribed.
	"I'll tell her," the thing said, and slammed the keyhole shut.
Whistler's face recovered its usual balance between human and rodent. A
few seconds later, the door opened, revealing an ancient woman in a
faded nightgown.
	"Whistler," she rasped. "It's been ages."
	"Heya, Mab," Whistler said. "Uh...not to embarass ya or nothin',
but your glamour..."
	"Hmmm?" Mab looked down at herself. "Oh, hell! I'm getting old,
my boy. Can't believe I let that slip..."
	She wore a necklace, from which dangled a pink stone. She touched
it and uttered a syllable under her breath. Before Whistler's eyes, Mab
transformed from a wizened crone to a beautiful girl in a shining,
nearly transparent white gown.
	"Ahhhh," she said in a voice like a melody. "That's much better.
Now I'm myself again. Come in, come in, get out of the cold..."

	Her bare feet hovered an inch or two off the floor as she reached
for a glass.
	Whistler was seated on a couch in her apartment. The place was
nicely decorated, but it didn't really have a soul. Mostly because this
was where Mab entertained her guests. Her real home lay beyond the
interior door, from under which sunlight and a fresh breeze streamed.
	"Scotch, neat," she said, "walking" over and handing him the
glass. "Now...you say you want to rent the place out tomorrow night?"
	"Yeah. You remember Doyle, right?"
	"Doyle...oh, yes, he comes in here quite a bit. He's been pumping
my regulars for information. Does his fair share of drinking, too."
	"That's him. He got whacked last night."
	"Oh, the poor thing! Not that business with the Scourge..."
	"Yep. Actually, he's the one that disabled that bomb of theirs."
	"Really? I heard it was the vampire. The one with the soul."
	"Nah...anyway, we're throwin' him a wake."
	Mab smiled and sat on the couch next to him.
	"Is money an object here?" she asked. "Not to nitpick, but he had
a fairly sizable tab..."
	"I got it covered," Whistler said, pulling something small and
shiny out of his pocket and handing it to her.
	"Is this...is this a Morra gem?"
	"Yep. Got it from the vamp. Apparently, he's been hunting the
things wherever he can find them."
	"Well, that'll do," Mab said, tucking the gem away somewhere in
the folds of her gown. "What do you need?"
	"Not a lot. Good booze, good tunes. I'll round up his friends."
	"You don't have to go so soon, do you?" Mab said, running a
finger along his neck. "After all, it's been a while since you came
around..."
	"Hmmm," Whistler said, smirking. "I might be able to lend you a
few minutes of my time."
	"You're something," Mab said, slipping off his hat. "Not many
want to go this far after seeing me without my glamour."
	"Well, not many wanna go this far with me after finding out I got
a face like a Denver omelet."

	"Angel Investigations, we help the hopeless."
	Beat.
	"Well, I'm sure we can help. What's the nature of your problem?"
	Beat.
	"What?! We don't do that kind of thing!"
	Beat.
	"Look, we're a private investigation service. We're not hitmen."
	Beat.
	"He's what kind of demon?"
	Beat.
	"I'll have to check. Let me get your number. Now, how many of
your pets has he eaten?"
	Cordelia looked up as the door to Angel Investigations swung
open. Standing there, still wet from the drizzle falling in Los Angeles
this morning, was Harry. The ringlets of her hair fell in a wet tangle
down her back, and her face was unreadable.
	"All right, I'll let you know after I've spoken to him. Thank
you." Cordelia hung up the phone and stood cautiously. "Hey, Harry."
	"Hi." She tried on a smile, but it didn't fit and she put it
back. "I took a cab."
	"Let me take your coat--"
	"I'm not wearing a coat."
	"Oh. Right. Towel? For your hair? Because that's going to get
really frizzy."
	"Yeah, okay. Towel. Sure."
	"I'll go get one," Cordelia said. She headed for Angel's office
and stuck her head in. "She's here."
	"Okay. Can you pick her up?" Angel said, not looking up from what
he was reading. "I'd do it, but I can't count on the weather staying
like--"
	"No, she's here. In the office. Where's that towel?"
	"Bathroom. She's here? I thought she was--"
	"She's...she's a little freaked, Angel. Go easy."
	"I always do."
	"Yes, but in an incredible intense sort of way. Don't do that."
	"...Okay." He stepped out into the main office and saw her
sitting on the couch. "Hi, Harry."
	"Angel," she said. "So. I didn't think I'd be visiting again so
soon."
	"None of us saw this coming, Harry."
	"Not even Francis," Harry said, smiling a little as she used
Doyle's middle name. "You'd think he'd know, right?"
	"Harry, I--"
	"Don't," Harry said, raising a hand. "I just got off an 18-hour
flight and I've got a couple of Bloody Marys in me. I can't do the talk
right now."
	"Okay. If you want, you can grab some sleep downstairs."
	Harry nodded.
	"Sleep," she said. "Okay."

	He had his feet up on a table, concentrating. Visualizing.
	"I'm holding the cup," Doyle muttered as what he remembered as
his fingers closed around the handle of a coffee mug. "I am holding
this cup."
	To the eyes of anyone who wasn't dead, the cup was floating a few
inches above Angel's kitchen table, wavering slightly.
	"Just holdin' a cup here," Doyle said. "No problem."
	The cup rose as Doyle lifted it above his head. Then, gently, he
set it down.
	"Right. Good. No problem." He walked around the kitchen a bit. It
passed the time. Maybe he could convince Angel to buy a TV down here,
leave it on...
	He started as the elevator whined into life. Curious, he walked
over, wondering who it was.
	Harry, a towel around her hair, stepped out of the elevator,
followed by Angel.
	"Okay," Angel said. "The bed's over here. I don't keep much food
in the fridge, but if you need anything that's not here, let us know
and we'll get it for you."
	"Okay," Harry said.
	Doyle watched silently as Harry stumbled towards the bed. She sat
down and pulled her boots off.
	"Anything you need?" Angel said.
	"No. Just sleep."
	Angel nodded and walked back to the elevator, leaving Harry to
sleep.
	Doyle couldn't breathe. Well, he didn't need to, but he still
couldn't. He couldn't say a word. All he could do was watch her.
	She unwrapped the towel and gave her hair a vigorous rub. Then
she lay back on the bed, her eyes closed.
	"Hey, love," he whispered.
	And it was only then that she began to cry.

	"Hey, cats," Whistler said, strolling into the office. "What's
the haps? The Widow Doyle get in yet?"
	"Her name's Harry," Cordelia said frigidly. "And your command of
Swingbonics impresses no one, ratboy."
	"Feisty. I like that."
	"Quiet. I like that."
	"Whistler," Angel said, stepping off the elevator. "How'd it go?"
	"Mab's Place, tonight at 9. She's gonna clean the place up. I've
already got the invitations out."
	"To who?"
	"A few people I knew Doyle knew. Scabs MacGillicudy, Norton the
Minotaur, Joey Eyeballs..."
	"Great," Cordelia muttered. "The Sopranos meets the X-Files."
	"Well, I invited all the normals on your list, too, but none of
'em was up for it."
	"Hey, maybe we should invite Kate," Cordelia said.
	"I'm not sure she'd get along with guys like Norton the
Minotaur," Angel said. "She's already a little suspicious of me."
	"What about whatsername there?" Whistler said. "The Slayer. She
up for it?"
	An amazingly uncomfortable silence fell over the office.
	"She only met Doyle once," Angel said stiffly. "Briefly. Besides,
she's got her own life now."
	"She does?" Whistler asked, confused. "Hey, I knew you moved
outta town and all that, but I thought that was just until you can work
out the true happiness thing."
	"Not quite," Angel said. "Look, I've got work to do. So do you."
	He walked into his office, closing the door behind him.
	"What's with him?" Whistler asked.
	"Aside from you rubbing salt into his wounds? Nothing a good
beating of you with a two-by-four wouldn't cure," Cordelia said,
glaring at him. "Look into the miracle of tact, would you? I thought it
was for losers too, but I've found it pretty useful."
	"Fine, fine, nobody loves me, everybody hates me, think I'll go
eat worms. See you at the party, Princess."
	"Don't call me that," Cordelia said sharply.

	Some things are unique to certain people, but some things are
universal. For instance, when a woman bursts into tears right in front
of a man, that man will generally do what Doyle did.
	Which was panic.
	"Oh, jeez," Doyle stammered. "Oh, don't do that, Harry."
	She covered her face with her hands, her body shaking with sobs.
	"Harry, come on. It's, it's not that bad, yeah? I mean, here I
am, right? I'm still here!"
	She released a small moan and sniffled loudly before the process
began again.
	"Harry..." He crouched by her. "This is the subliminal voice in
your head. I am ordering you not to cry."
	She kept crying.
	Being a ghost sucked.
	He reached out and touched her hair, his fingers slipping through
the curls he could no longer touch. It seemed to help.
	"Come on now," he whispered. "Come on. It's not that bad."
	She wiped her eyes and stared at the ceiling.
	"I never forgot about you, y'know," he said. "Even right before
the end. You know all that jazz about your life flashin' in front of
you? 'Strue. I remember the night we met, remember that? The night I
sang to ya?"
	She smiled a little, remembering.
	"Dulcinea...Dulcinea...I see heaven when I see thee, Dulcinea..."
Doyle sang quietly. "It was the only song I knew about a pretty
girl."
	Her eyes drifted closed as his spectral fingers brushed her hair.
Somewhere inside her mind, she heard him sing, heard him as though
remembering that night years ago when a stranger sang to her.
	"And yer name is like a prayer, an angel's whisper...Dulcinea, 
Dulcinea..." He looked at his ex-wife, watched her breathing grow slow
and steady. "You rest now. You'll feel better when ya wake up."
	He stood and turned. Whistler was there, leaning against the
doorway.
	"Hey," he whispered. "You wanna get out of this mausoleum?"

	"How do I look?" Cordelia asked. She wore a sleeveless black
dress that stretched to her ankles.
	"Fine," Angel said as he fumbled with his tie.
	"Not too formal? I've never been to a wake before...lots of
funerals...lots and lots of funerals, but never a wake."
	"You look fine." He untied the tie and started again. "You'd
think after nearly two and a half centuries, I would have mastered a
Windsor knot..."
	"Here. Let me." Before he could protest, she was tying the knot
in his tie, not looking at him, concentrating fiercely on it. "So. An
Irish wake. What exactly does this involve?"
	"Basically, we all get together. We eat, we drink, we sing a few
sad songs, maybe a little dancing."
	"That's it?"
	"We're not big on life expectancy in the old country, Cordelia. I
went to a lot of funerals when I was alive. And probably even more
wakes...not that I knew half the victims..."
	"Feel free not to elaborate." Cordelia finished tying the tie.
"You'd better wake Harry."

	"Oh, no!" Doyle moaned as they approached the gate. "Whistler,
fer cryin' out loud..."
	"Hey, I don't like it any better than you," Whistler said. "But
they told me to report in once you'd got your bearings." They stood in
the darkness for a moment. "I hate these guys."
	"You didn't have one of 'em interrupt your trip to perfect peace,
bub."
	Whistler uttered the incantation under his breath. There was the
requisite flash of light, and there they were, in the Oracles' Chamber.
They stood at the front of a long passageway leading to a temple in the
distance. The male Oracle, the one who'd sent Doyle back, glared at
them, his arms folded. The female Oracle smirked at the entire scene.
	"I heard that," the male Oracle said.
	"We don't care," Doyle replied.
	"Well, your worshipfullness," Whistler said to the female Oracle,
"Here he is. Big as life but not as lively."
	"Thank you, Whistler," the female Oracle said. "Well, Doyle. How
are you enjoying your new position?"
	"Well, ma'am, not ta debate the wisdom of the Powers That Be or
nothin', but it's my considered opinion that my new position sucks
arse." This inspired a fresh smirk from the female Oracle and an
outraged gasp from the male.
	"You are speaking to the Oracles, ghost," the male Oracle said.
"Be respectful."
	"Ram it, clown!" Doyle replied. "You've got me stuck in a state
of being where I can do piss-all for my friends. All I can do is give
'em ideas and hope they pick up on 'em. You're not gonna get a thank-
you note from me on this one."
	"It is not for you to question the will of the Powers That Be."
	"Enough," the female Oracle said. "Your frustration is
understandable, Doyle. All I can say is that there is a guiding hand
behind this. You will be rewarded eventually for all your service. And
you will be of help to your friends."
	She lay a hand on his arm, and he was shocked by the contact.
	"You have to trust the Powers That Be, Doyle," she said.
	"All right," he said. "All right. That's why I'm in this in the
first place, after all." He looked down at her hand. "So you can touch
me, yeah?"
	"Yes."
	"Good." He turned to the male Oracle and punched him in the face,
sending the being to the ground. "That's for yer attitude, ya poncey
little git."
	"Oooh," Whistler murmured. "Nice shot."
	The female Oracle laughed once before stopping herself.
	"You'd better get going before he wakes up."
	"Sorry 'bout that," Doyle said.
	"Don't be. He may be my brother, but he had that coming."

	Angel knocked on the door to Mab's place. The peephole opened,
revealing the same two-pupilled eyes.
	"We're here for the function," Angel said.
	"Whassa password?" the thing asked.
	"Junior Bunk took it downtown," Angel replied. The peephole
slammed shut; a moment later, the door opened. The bouncer stayed in
the shadows as the three of them filed past.
	"Whoa," Cordelia whispered as she looked around at the wake's
attendees. "A regular hive of scum and villainy."
	The place had been cleaned up and didn't look half bad; what they
could see of the bar gleamed. Various seedy types in coats and ties
were lined up at the bar, quaffing beers. One of them had the head of a
bull and snorted fire as he belched. Behind the bar, a blue man with
four arms, wearing a Nehru jacket and fez, dished out the drinks.
	Angel scanned the tables for people he recognized. At one table
sat a man with seven eyes in his forehead and slicked-back hair; beside
him sat a well-coiffed man in a bowtie. At another table, there was a
preacher, of all people, sitting beside a beautiful short-haired blonde
and a scruffy-looking guy in a sleeveless vest, T-shirt and torn jeans.
Vampire was Angel's guess. A fortyish blonde man in a dirty trenchcoat
leaned against Mab's piano, finishing off a Guinness.
	One table was decked out with a red velvet tablecloth. At it sat
a woman who looked as though she'd strolled out of a Maxfield Parrish
painting...and Whistler. Nuzzling her ear.
	"There's our party," Angel said.

	"D'you have ta do that?" Doyle groused as Whistler and Mab
canoodled. He got no response. "Bastards. Probably dance in front o'
cripples, too."
	"Hey," Cordelia said. "Did you give him permission to do that?"
She walked up to the table and took the chair Doyle was sitting in. He
barely got out of the way before she sat down.
	"Permission? I give him encouragement." Mab stood up and extended
a hand. "Greetings. I'm Mab. Welcome to my place. You must be
Cordelia."
	"...I must?"
	"Whistler told me what to expect. Harry, I assume?"
	"Hi," Harry said, taking her hand. "Thank you for letting us use
this place."
	"Not at all. And you...oh, my," she said, getting the full Angel
experience. "You must be Angel."
	"Someone's got a cruuuush," Doyle singsonged, earning him a dirty
look from Whistler.
	"Hi," Angel said. "Pleasure to meet you."
	"Well, now that you're here, I guess we can begin in earnest,"
Mab said.
	"Begin? But everybody's already drinking. What's to begin?"
Cordelia asked.
	"Well, the toasts," Harry said quietly. "His friends--and I guess
me, too--we'll give toasts to Francis. Talk about him. What we'll
miss."
	"...Do we have to?" Cordelia asked.
	"Hey!" Doyle cried.
	"It's not compulsory," Harry replied.
	"Don't worry," Whistler said. "The beer's been flowing pretty
steadily so far, so they should start up any minute. Hey, Angel, what's
the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish wake?"
	"One less drunk," Angel and Doyle said in unison.
	"Just step all over my punchline, why don'tcha."
	"Music!" Mab said suddenly. "Can't forget that..." She got up and
glided behind the bar. After a moment, a mandolin-tinged melody began
to pour out from the speakers.
	"Hey," Angel said. "I recognize this..."
	"I mooched those Pogues CDs from Doyle's stuff," Whistler said.
"The band cancelled."
	"Norton greeted them at the door," Mab explained.
	Doyle crouched by Cordelia and Harry.
	"How ya doin'," he said.
	"It's weird," Harry said. "I just...I feel like he's still here."
	"Yeah, me too," Cordelia replied. "So what are you gonna say in
your toast?"
	"I don't know," Harry said. "What...did he say anything before he
died?"
	"Um..."
	"You might wanna lie on this one," Doyle said.
	"I don't think you want to hear it."
	"Why?" Harry asked.
	"He..." Cordelia shook her head. "He kissed me."
	Harry's expression didn't change.
	"Then he, um, he showed me his demon face. And he said..."
Cordelia lapsed into the worst brogue Doyle had ever heard in his life
or afterlife. "'Looks like we'll never know if this is a face ya could
learn ta love.'" She looked at Harry sheepishly. "His accent sounded
better than that."
	"And then what?" Harry asked.
	"Then he jumped. He disconnected the bomb. He saved us all."
	Harry nodded.
	"I think...I think that's how he would have wanted to go.
Performing a heroic deed."
	"Bollocks to that!" Doyle said. "I wanted to die an incredibly
old man, surrounded by a gigantic family, with a whisky in my hand!"
	"I think so too," Cordelia said.
	"Either that, or I wanted my heart to explode durin' a night o'
passion with one of you." Doyle considered that for a moment.
"Actually, both of you. And Yasmeen Bleeth. And that chick from Hole.
And maybe Lisa Loeb...and that gal on that Dawson show, you know, the
one with the black--ah, you're not listenin'."
	"...so what did you think of his face?" Harry was saying.
	"Um..."
	"God help me," Doyle moaned.
	"...it wasn't that bad," Cordelia finished.
	Doyle looked at her in surprise.
	"I mean, it was, you know, spikier than I'd like. But other than
that, it was just...it was Doyle, you know?" She smirked. "He had that
huge nose no matter what face he had on."
	"This is a noble profile, I'll have ya know."
	"I remember the first time I saw that face," Harry said.
	"Oh, no," Doyle said. "Harry, I'm beggin' ya--"
	"We were...it was the first time we made love..."
	"Harry, not this story, please..."
	"And...see, the face tended to come out during involuntary
physical reactions, like when he'd sneeze, or..." She broke down into
giggles. "So, so I'm looking down at him--"
	"Looking down at him?" Cordelia asked, her eyebrows raised.
	"Looking down at him, and he reaches, you know, the plateau,
and..." She laughed again. "It took him ten minutes to coax me out of
the bathroom after I saw that!"
	"Oh, God," Doyle moaned.
	"I just wish..." Cordelia sighed. "Well, we'll never know now."
	"Attention, please!" rang out a voice to their right. The guy in
the bowtie was standing.
	"Well, someone's got to kick this thing off," he said. "The
name's MacGillicuddy."
	"That's Scabs MacGillicuddy?" Angel whispered to Whistler.
	"I never said the scabs were on his face."
	"Please don't expand on that."
	"Doyle and I were old pals," MacGillicuddy continued.
	"What?!" Doyle cried out.
	"We went through a lot together; we met when we were both stowing
away on a cargo ship. I kinda helped him get his start in this
country..."
	"He broke my nose and stole my wallet!"
	"We went our separate ways for a while, but we both ended up
together in Boston for a few months."
	"He crashed on my couch and wouldn't leave!"
	"Siddown, Scabs," Whistler yelled.
	"What?! I'm tryin' to toast an old friend!"
	"Give us a break," the minotaur cried out. "We all know about
that business with the Hand of Glory, ya know."
	"Well, hey, come on, that was business," MacGillicuddy said.
"Doyle understood..."
	"Like hell I did!"
	"Wait a minute," said one of the demons, standing up. He was red
and wore a sharkskin suit over a crab-like exoskeleton. "You're that
MacGillicuddy? You're that sonovabitch that conned my uncle on that
Atlantean land deal!"
	"Me? Um...I got a brother, looks a lot like me. To Doyle,
everyone, excuse me, gotta go--" MacGillicuddy dropped his glass and
sprinted towards the door. The crab guy snapped out at him with what
looked like a lobster's claw and chased him outside.
	"Hey, the first brawl!" Whistler said happily. "They're getting
started early!"
	"I need more ambrosia," Mab said. "Does anyone else want a
drink?"
	"None for me," Angel said.
	"Whisky," Harry said.
	"Same," Whistler added.
	"What's ambrosia?" Cordelia asked.
	"Uh...she's not legal yet," Angel said.
	"Angel!"
	"Well, you're not."
	"That's okay," Mab said. "I don't even have a liquor license. Are
you much of a drinker?"
	"Not really," Cordelia said. "A little wine here and there..."
	"I'll bring you what I'm drinking," Mab said, moving off. "You'll
like it."
	"Uh...are you sure you should be doing that?" Angel asked.
	"Aw, leave her alone," Doyle said. "You're not her da."
	"I'll be fine," Cordelia said. "I'm not going to get drunk or
anything!"

	It was about a half hour later when Cordelia started singing
along with the song.
	"It was Christmas Eeeeeeeeeve, babe....iiiiiiiin the drunk
tank.... An old man said to meeeeeee, won't seeeeeee another one..."
	The other stared at her, agog with fear and audial pain.
	"Does...does she know she sounds like that?" Mab asked.
	"I blame this on you," Angel said to Whistler.
	"I blame society," Whistler replied.
	"I blame Canada," Doyle added. This caused Whistler to laugh mid-
drink. Whisky is never quite so unpleasant as when it's being ejected
from one's nose. "Ha! Take that!"
	"Ooooh," Cordelia said, holding her head. "I don't like this part
of the song. It's too fast. Too many words."
	"You okay?" Harry asked.
	"I...am just...fine," Cordelia said. She lay her head on Harry's
shoulder. "How are you?"
	"I'm all right."
	"Could I ask you somethin'?"
	"Sure."
	"How come every time somebody gets up to give a toast, they end
up getting into a fight?" Earlier, Joey Eyeballs' attempt at toasting
their fallen friend had ended in a brawl between him and what looked
like a skeleton wearing a funeral suit.
	"Because Doyle knew a lot of really slimy people," Harry said,
tossing down her third whisky of the night. "Matter of fact...hold on,
I need more of that." She got up, causing Cordelia to start tipping
over.
	"Whoa there, Princess--" Instinct made Doyle shoot out his hands
to catch her; her head passed into his hands.
	She stopped.
	They both stopped.
	Cordelia's eyes snapped open and went wide. She felt like she was
being electrocuted...but in a nice way. She smelled fresh loam, smelled
the outdoors. She could just see someone, see his hands, and--
	Doyle jerked his hands away, gasping.
	"What the hell was that?" they asked in unison.
	"Uh...'scuse me, I gotta do a thing," Whistler said hurriedly. He
made some furious follow-me movements as discreetly as he could.
	"You okay?" Angel asked.
	"I...that was bizarre. I felt like someone was touching me...I
mean, touching the inside of me..."
	"Well, that ambrosia was a very good year," Mab commented.

	Inside the bathroom, Whistler was just washing up when Doyle
walked in.
	"What just happened?" he asked.
	"She touched your soul, man," Whistler said.
	"She what?"
	"Well, what's a ghost, right? It's your soul, walking around
without your body. I forgot to tell you about this part of it. You
gotta be careful about walking through people, because when you do,
they touch your soul. It's disconcerting."
	"It was...it wasn't bad, actually," Doyle said.
	"Don't do it too often. Prolonged contact isn't good for either
of you. I dunno, you'd have to have one of the Oracles explain it to
you."
	"Attention, please!" someone was calling from the bar.
	"Come on," Whistler said. "Don't want to miss another fight."

	Harry was standing at the bag, a fresh shot of whisky in her
hands.
	"I'm an anthpo...anth...I'm a demonologist," she said to her
audience. "I was also Francis' wife for a little while. It didn't work
out. He, uh, he never accepted who he was. What he was. The demon.
	"Any of you ever had that problem? Some of you can pass for
human, I can see that right now, but how many of you accept the demon
inside?
	"Francis never could.
	"We broke up because he was so..." She squinted and shook her
head, as though the memory was too painful to be dealt with. "He hated
himself so much, and I tried, you know? I tried telling him that it
didn't matter, that I loved him the way he was, and...I could never
reach him.
	"I never stopped loving him. Even when I was gonna get married, I
mean, I never really stopped. And he never knew that."
	She raised her glass.
	"Here's to who we are inside," Harry said, and drained the glass.
The audience murmured and raised their glasses, took their drinks.
	Harry stumbled back to the table, all eyes upon her.
	"How'd I do?" she asked.
	"Great," Angel said. "You did great."
	"Yeah, really livened the place up," Cordelia muttered, her head
in her hands. "Can I have some more of that stuff?"

	Doyle crouched next to Harry's chair. With a hand over his mouth,
he studied his ex-wife, studied her profile as she leaned on one hand,
staring at a pair of step-dancers Mab had brought in.
	"I knew, love," he said. "I always knew."
	He reached out to her, then hesitated. Slowly, he let his fingers
slide along her curls.
	"I'm sorry," he continued. "Sorry I wasn't the man ya thought I
was."
	She rubbed her eyes. She looked exhausted.
	"Soon, you're gonna find someone," he said. "Ya know? You're
gonna find someone, and, and he's gonna be the guy you need. He's gonna
be brave and strong and he's gonna know who he is. And he's gonna love
you. Just hang in there, all right?"
	She stared at the dancers, as though trying to understand what
they were doing.
	"Goodbye, Harry," he said, and walked back towards Whistler.

	Mab placed a shot glass full of blood in front of Angel.
	"What's this for?" he asked.
	"It's your turn," Mab said simply.
	He picked up the glass and sniffed it.
	"Chimp?" he asked.
	"Only the best," she replied. "Come on. They're waiting.
	Angel sighed and stood up.
	"Hey there," he said. Everyone quieted down and looked at him.
"My name's Angel. I was Doyle's friend. Uh...you gotta bear with me,
it's been a couple of decades since I've had to do this.
	"I didn't know him very long. Just a few months. When I first met
him, he'd broken into my place. From what I've heard of these toasts,
that's how a lot of you met him too."
	Scattered laughter from the listeners.
	"He told me he'd been sent by the Powers That Be," Angel
continued. "If you can believe that. He showed me what was lying in
front of me, and what my future was going to be like...basically, he
lit a fire under my ass. He got me going.
	"I never got a chance to thank him for that.
	"So..." Angel raised his glass; the listeners did likewise. "To
Doyle. Thanks for everything you did, whether you were doing it for us,
or doing it to us."
	There was agreement from the listeners, and everybody drank.
Angel got some applause as he sat down.
	"Nice toast," Whistler said.
	"Well, it's like riding a bike," Angel said. "You never forget
how."
	"Thanks, mate," Doyle said. "For everything."

	Cordelia was well into her third glass of ambrosia when Angel
nudged her.
	"Cordy," he said, "You're nodding off. Maybe we ought to get out
of here."
	"Huh? No," she said, sitting up. "No, wait. I gotta give a
toast."
	"Are you sure? You're kinda..."
	"I'm fine, I'm fine." She stood up. "Attention, attention....hel-
looooo..."
	Once more, the audience turned towards their table.
	"Hi," Cordelia said. "My name's Cordelia Chase. You might
recognize me from this episode of VIP I was in? I was 'Second Starlet'
in this one scene...it was only one line, but it finally got me my SAG
card..."
	"Cordelia," Angel murmured.
	"What? Oh, right. Anyway, that's not important. What is important
is my toast!" She smiled brightly. "To Doyle. That miserable lying
bastard."
	Shocked whispers ran through the crowd. Doyle covered his eyes.
	"Just what I need to make this evening complete," he muttered.
	"You all know he died...you do all know he died, right? Of course
you do. But, but you don't know how he lived. For months...for months,
I worked right next to him, you know? Months! Like, okay, you see where
Harry is right now? That's where Doyle would be! And, and he never told
me! Why didn't he ever tell me?"
	She looked out at the crowd, who stared back, confused.
	"You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"
	Various "no"s from the crowd.
	"Oh, well, listen to this, okay? Right before he died, he gives
me this great big kiss! And I mean, this was a real wowee kiss, like an
Antonio Banderas in 'Desperado' kind of kiss. And, and then he put on
his demon face, and...and then he was gone.
	"And now I don't know anything. I don't know how I feel about
him. I liked him, okay? I liked having him around! He was a nice guy!
He couldn't dress, sure, and he always smelled a little like bourbon,
and he had this great big nose..."
	"Again with the nose."
	"But now I'll never know if there could have been anything else
between us. And, and I'm always going to wonder about that." She looked
down, tears welling in her eyes. "But I can say one thing. It was a
face that I could have learned to love."
	She raised her glass.
	"Here's to Doyle. And truth. Always tell the truth." She drained
her glass and sank heavily into her seat, to some small applause.
	"Wow," Whistler said. "Now that was a toast."
	Doyle looked at her. There only seemed to be one thing left to
say.
	"Aw, dammit!" he yelled.

	It was about an hour later, and people were beginning to drift
away. Angel looked at Cordelia; she was half-dozing, midway through
glass #4 of ambrosia. Mab was giggling slightly, because Whistler was
under the table doing something tickle-related to her.
	"We really ought to get going," Angel said.
	"Wait, wait," Harry said. "The wake's lament. Someone's gotta
sing the wake's lament!"
	"The whuh?" Cordelia muttered.
	"The song for Francis," Harry said. "Someone's gotta sing."
	"Great," Doyle said. "Somebody'll probably sing Danny Boy."
	"Someone sing Danny Boy!" Whistler cried from under the table.
	"Oh, God, no," Angel said. "If I never hear that song again,
it'll be too soon."
	"Thank you!" Doyle said.
	"Well, are you gonna sing something, then?" Harry asked. "I'm
fresh out of tunes."
	An idea occured to Doyle. He crossed over to Angel and whispered
in the vampire's ear.
	"Yeah, I've got one," he said. He stood up and cleared his
throat.
	"Attention, please!" Mab cried. "Attention for the singer!"
	"You're gonna sing?!" Cordelia said a little too loudly. "Oh,
this I gotta see."
	As Angel opened his mouth, Doyle began to sing. Angel mimicked
him perfectly; it was as close to a possession as a new ghost like
Doyle could master. The song was slow and quiet, and Angel's voice--
Doyle's voice--was clear and steady.

"Oh, all the money e'er I had, I spent it in good company.
 And all the harm that ever I've done, alas it was to none but me.
 And all I've done for want of wit to mem'ry now I can't recall;
 So fill to me the parting glass, Good night and joy be with you all."

	The bar was dead quiet as Angel/Doyle began the second verse.

"Oh, all the comrades e'er I had, they're sorry for my going away.
 And all the sweethearts e'er I had, they'd wished me one more day to stay.
 But since it falls unto my lot, that I should rise and you should not,
 I gently rise and softly call, Goodnight and joy be with you all."

	Cordelia looked at him, her eyes tearing up, and she found her
fingers interlacing with Harry's as they listened. Doyle looked at her,
at Harry, at both his lost loves as he sang...

"If I had money enough to spend, and leisure time to sit awhile.
 There is a fair maid in this town, that sorely has my heart beguiled.
 Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips, I own, she has my heart in thrall..."

	And here, the rest of the bar joined in on the final line...

"Then fill to me the parting glass, Good night and joy be with you all."

	Angel sat down to loud applause from all. He smiled at his
friends.
	"I didn't know you could sing," Cordelia said.
	"I can't," Angel replied. "Can't sing a note."
	"Then what was that?"
	"Beats me."
	Doyle ducked under the table and smirked at Whistler.
	"Danny Boy, is it, ya rat-faced sonovabitch?"
	"Ah, shaddap."

	It was not long after that when Mab finally closed the place
down. Angel flagged down a cab and got Harry into it.
	"You guys'll be all right?" he asked Cordy and Whistler.
	"I'll see her home," Whistler said.
	"He'll see me home," Cordy repeated in a sing-song manner. "Home,
home, home."
	"Whistler," Angel said warningly. "Don't."
	"Hey! You wound me. I wouldn't touch a hair on her head."
	"Damn straight you wouldn't," Doyle muttered.
	"It's not her head I'm worried about," Angel said. "Just watch
it."
	"Ah, go home," Whistler replied. "Sun'll be up soon. I'll see you
tomorrow."
	Angel gave him one last warning look and ducked into the cab.
Cordelia waved to it as it drove off.
	"Bye bye, Angel! Bye bye, Harry!" She giggled. "Harry. I wish my
name was Harry. Hey! Let's go play skee-ball!"
	"I got a better idea," Whistler said. "Howzabout I get you a cab
and get you home like the nice vampire said."
	"You're no fun," Cordelia said, pouting. "I wanna have fun."
	"Come on," Whistler said, walking arm in arm with her. "We'll
walk for a while. Walking's fun."
	"Wheeee! Walking," Cordelia said, stumbling along.
	"Wow," Doyle said. "A giddy drunk. You don't often see one in the
wild like this."
	"It is rare, yeah," Whistler agreed.
	"Who're you talking to?" Cordy asked.
	"No one," Whistler replied.

	She was asleep by the time the cab pulled up outside her
building. Whistler passed the driver some bills and picked Cordelia up.
	"Watch her head, man," Doyle said.
	"Relax," Whistler said. "Tell you what, go on ahead."
	"What?"
	"Just go into her place. You'll be surprised."
	"Really."
	"It's a good thing. Trust me."
	Doyle shrugged and floated through the door--that would never
stop creeping him out--and entered Cordelia's apartment. Dark. He could
hear the TV from the living room. He walked in...
	There was a chubby man in a suit sitting on the couch. He looked
somehow familiar. The guy looked up and smiled ruefully at the
newcomer.
	"Hey, you're finally here," the guy said, clicking the TV off.
"I've been waiting."
	"Do I know you?"
	"Sort of. I mean, we've never formally met, but I've been
around."
	It took a moment or two for it to click in Doyle's head.
	"Phantom Dennis?" he asked.
	"Well, now that you're in the same boat, just call me Dennis."
	The door opened; Whistler carried Cordelia inside and gave a nod
to the two of them.
	"Welcome home," Whistler said.
	"What? What the hell is this?"
	"You didn't tell him?" Dennis asked.
	"I was goin' for a sense of wonder kinda feel."
	"Whistler--"
	"Look, here's the deal," Dennis said to Doyle. "The Powers That
Be let me stick around for a little while because they knew that Cordy
and your vampire buddy there were gonna need a little supernatural
help, and they knew that you weren't long for this world."
	"Oh, that's great!" Whistler cried as he lay Cordelia on the
couch. "Just wreck my reveal!"
	"Wait, whoa," Doyle said. "They knew this was gonna happen to
me?"
	"They know everything," Whistler said. "You know that."
	"Son of a...wait. So you were, like, holdin' my place for me?"
	Dennis smiled, stood and opened his arms wide.
	"Welcome home."
	Doyle thought about it for a moment.
	"Huh," he huhed.
	"Well, then, if you don't need me..." Dennis looked at Whistler
expectantly.
	"Oh, yeah." Whistler placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled
loudly. In response, a shaft of light opened from out of nowhere.
	"Owwwww!" Cordy moaned, sitting up. "What was that?"
	"Nothin'," Whistler replied. "Go back to sleep."
	She squinted in the direction of the ghosts.
	"I could swear I see..."
	"Yeah, I know," Whistler said. "It's okay. Get some rest."
	"'Kay." She lay back down, closed her eyes.
	"See you later, Cordy," Dennis said.
	"Bye, Dennis," Cordelia murmured before turning over.
	Dennis stepped into the shaft of light and gave a little salute
to Doyle and Whistler.
	"That's about it for me," he said. "See you on the other side.
Don't feel like you have to rush."
	"Cheers, mate," Doyle said.
	"Beam up already," Whistler added.
	Dennis nodded and looked up to the shaft of light. As he did, the
light began to move upwards; in a moment, it was gone, and Dennis with
it.
	"Well, there's somethin' ya don't see every day," Doyle said.
"So..."
	"So, this is your gig," Whistler said, "You're Cordy's guardian
spirit. Your job's to keep an eye on her, keep her and her friends
safe, stuff like that. Think you can handle it?"
	"I guess so," Doyle said, sitting down. "It's just...what if I
can't protect 'em?"
	"Do your best," Whistler said. "All you can do, right?"
	"Guess so."
	"I better beat feet." Whistler stood. He extended a hand to
Doyle. "Slip me some soul."
	Doyle touched his hand, and for the barest instant, felt himself
in contact with the half-demon before him; he had an odd impression of
brimstone and freshly cut grass, an odd mix of smells.
	"See you around, daddio," Whistler said, heading towards the
door. "And Doyle? Don't worry. Every job's got its fringe benefits."
	"Right, man," Doyle said, confused. With that, Whistler walked
out the door.

	He awoke to the sound of a quiet moan. He opened his eyes--hey,
whaddaya know, ghosts can sleep--and saw Cordelia pulling herself off
the sofa. She groaned again.
	"Oh God," she murmured. She stuck out her tongue, as though
trying to shake the taste off it. She took a step gingerly and winced.
Even that hurt.
	"Hangovers are a bitch, aren't they?" Doyle asked.
	"Dennis," she called out. "Do me a favor and hit the coffee
machine, would you?"
	"Yeah, sure," Doyle said. He was going to have to get used to her
calling him 'Dennis.'
	"I'm going to take a shower," Cordelia announced, and headed
towards the bathroom, unzipping her dress as she went.
	Doyle watched, transfixed, as she stepped out of the dress and
walked into the bathroom. She was just undoing her bra when he
remembered the coffee.
	"Fringe benefits," he said as he walked to the kitchen. "Life is
good."

Special thanks to Ellen for providing the wake's lament. All of this
is copyright Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt, except the stuff that isn't.

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