Not the Profound Type
So, yeah. I guess the fact that you’re reading this means I’m pretty much dead.
I’ve sort of known about it for a while. Skip — you remember Skip? He and I had a talk a while back, and he warned me what was gonna happen. So I knew for a few weeks. Or maybe months. I’d like to hope years, but I don’t think I have that long.
It wasn’t pretty. I heard enough from him to know that must be true. I hope you don’t remember me that way. The way I must have been at the end. Instead, try and remember me as I was before Doyle left me his little parting gift — long, beautiful hair, glowing face — no, wait, not glowing — make that radiant face, body to kill for, and on the cusp of inevitable stardom.
I hope you’re laughing now. Or at least smiling. Are you smiling? That’s something else I want. For you to smile when you think of me.
I know your first inclination will be to go into heavy brood mode; as we all know, it’s what you do best. But please, for my sake, and most especially for Connor’s, don’t do it. Enjoy your son, raise him to be a good man, and someday tell him about his gorgeous Auntie Cordelia. He’s a special gift from the PTB, and speaking from experience, their gifts aren’t always the best things going. A miracle, and one that you above all men deserve.
And for Pete’s sake, buy some colors. Poor kid won’t be able to tell you from the woodwork.
(Are you smiling now?)
Keep the gang together if you can. We’ve made a lovely little family here at the Hyperion, and I’d like to think that will continue. Let Wesley be the man we both know he can be. Help Gunn deal with the difficulties of his particular situation. And Fred… Fred, most of all. Take care of her, Angel. She’s not so much in huge puppy-love mode, and I suspect someone else will be taking a larger part in her life, but she still needs you.
And that’s pretty much it. I’d like to end with something really profound, but I’m not really the profound type. Let’s just try this on for size.
I love you.