CONCEPT: A stand alone story about Doyle. He entertains some thoughts about Cordelia at a pub, and gets into a fight reluctantly.

SETTING: Obviously before his death!

MY NOTES: I really, really thought Doyle was a great character. I wish Joss hadn't killed him off so early. I think it would have been cool to see Doyle and Wesley react. But, what are you going to do? This story is just a little tribute to drinkers in bars all around the world. My advice: TAKE THE BEER GOGGLES OFF!!!

Doyle slammed his whiskey glass down on the bar, grimacing as the liquid burnt a path from his throat to his liver. He looked down into the glass, stained with red-hot amber fluid. He thought about ordering another shot, but decided against it as he felt himself weaving a bit on the stool.

Around him, the sounds of the bar barely reached through his dazed mind. The jukebox spun out an old country tune he didn’t recognize. The sound of glasses clinking and voices bellowing with alcohol induced bravery buzzed through his skull.

Ahhh…the pub. Reminds me of home. Doyle thought, a smile crossing his features. He looked down at the wooden bar top and slowly traced designs in the moisture rings. The whiskey is better at home though, I’d have been dead drunk an hour ago. A small chuckle escaped his mouth and he shook his head at the smiley face he had drawn.

“Can I get you something else?” A voice said, cutting through his dazed mind. He looked up and smiled at Jimmy the bartender and shook his head.

“Naw, I think I’m done for the night Jimmy. I have to work tomorrow night.” Doyle said, waving a limp hand at the wizened bar keep.

“Night? You working the late shift?” Jimmy asked.

“Yeah, my boss is kinda of a night owl.” Said Doyle, “And at the rate I’m going, I’ll still be drunk tomorrow night. That’s more than enough for me.”

“Sure thing Doyle. I’ll just put those on your tab like usual?” It wasn’t even a question as Jimmy counted up the little shot glasses stacked in front of Doyle. Doyle nodded his head anyway and turned on his stool to gaze at the rest of the bar.

His attention was caught by a pretty brunette by the pool table. He squinted at her and thought she looked a lot like Cordelia, but he couldn’t be sure. Standing up, he slowly made his way towards the woman, careful to avoid the other customers. He stopped by the table and peered at the girl.

A certain feeling of disappointment came over him as he realized that the girl couldn’t possibly be Cordelia. She had hard lines around her heavily made up eyes. Her lips where thin and painted a bright red and her hair lacked the luster that Cordelia’s had. Doyle sighed and started to weave away.

Suddenly a hand wrapped around his arm and he looked down, confused. He looked back up and saw the woman smiling at him, a cigarette dangling between her thin lips. Her eyes simpered at him, revealing that she was long past her prime, and obviously didn’t know it.

“Hi there.” She said, tossing her greasy brown hair away from a neck riddled with love bites. Doyle raised his eyebrows and tried to step away from her touch, but she held him tight. “My name’s Trisha.”

“Doyle.” He said shortly. He tried to shake her from his arm, but she held fast and took a drag on her cigarette.

“Oh wow! I love your accent! England?” Trisha asked, smiling widely, lipstick stains on her teeth.

“Ireland, actually.” Doyle said, managing to extract his arm from her clinging grip. He took a step back and leaned against the brick wall to steady himself.

“Oh wow! I’ve always wanted to go there! What a coincidence!” Trisha said, waving her hands, her cigarette making sparks in the dank air. Doyle noticed she was looking out of the corners of her eyes, a devious smile on her lips. He followed her gaze and saw what it was she was looking at.

“Umm…yeah” Doyle muttered, gulping as he saw a huge guy in a leather jacket cracking his knuckles with narrowed eyes. “Uh. I gotta go. Nice to meet you…Tina.” Doyle said distractedly, pushing himself up off of the wall.

“Trisha!” She corrected, her nasal voice carrying out over the din as Doyle disappeared in a crowd. The best thing he could do was get the hell out of there before Mr. Tall Dark and Steroids decided to get a little fisty.

Back at the counter, Doyle searched for his leather jacket left abandoned on his stool. His smoke blurred eyes itched and watered as he made his way down the line of stools. Finally he found it on the floor, crumbled in a heap where it had slid off the stool. He picked it up and hastily rammed his arms in the sleeves.

“Leaving already Doyle?” Jimmy asked, looking up from his work, a towel draped on his shoulder. Doyle almost laughed at the cliché scene, but he just nodded and waved his hand in retreat.

Doyle turned and started for the door when suddenly he was stopped by a massive hand on his shoulder. He looked down at it numbly and knew immediately whose it was. He gulped and turned to face the huge biker.

“I saw you talking to my woman. Trisha’s my bitch, little man.” The biker said, scowling at him, his nostrils flaring in anger.

“I wasn’t aware of that, actually, but thank you for the clarification.” Doyle said, his speech slurred. He turned to walk away, but the biker grabbed his arm and turned him around.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” He said, sneering down at Doyle.

“Nowhere, I guess.” Doyle said dryly, gazing up at the biker, giving into the inevitable. This thug wanted a fight and there was no way he wasn’t going to get away without one. I might as well get a few in before I get my ass kicked.

“You getting smart with me, Mick?” The biker said, puffing up his chest like an ape.

“Sorry, want me to dumb things down?” Doyle shot back, clenching his fists at his side.

“That’s it! I’m going to kick your ass!” The biker bellowed at him. Doyle suddenly realized that a crowd was gathering to watch the fight. Great, that’s all I need. Lots of witnesses to my spectacular ass kicking.

“Skull!” An admonishing voice rang out over the silenced bar; Doyle recognized Trisha’s nasal voice easily. “What are you doing?” She said, stepping out from behind a waitress. She put her hands on her anorexic hips and scowled at him.

“I saw you talking to this dickhead, Trish! No one talks to my bitch and gets away with it!” Skull bellowed, thrusting his hand out at Doyle. It hit his chest, knocking him backwards a bit. Doyle weaved, but remained standing. Not for the first time, Doyle thanked God that being drunk was almost like being on painkillers. He’d have a bruise there in the morning, but he barely felt anything now.

“I’m not your bitch, Skull! You made that quite clear.” Trisha said, her dull eyes flashing.

Skull turned on her, throwing his hands up in the air. “What are you talking about?” He said, bewildered.

“You slept with my sister! Don’t deny it!” Trisha said, crocodile tears carving mascara trails down her sallow face.

“Shit, woman! You got me under surveillance or something?” Skull said, his eyes wide. He shifted position, his dusty leather boots creaking. Doyle watched them, thinking, Its like bloody Jerry Springer!

“So you admit it! You bastard!” Trisha said, yowling like a cat. She ran at Skull, her bony fists clenched. She hit his chest, battering him like a door. Skull, annoyed, shoved her away from him. Trisha landed on the floor with a thud, her elbow cracking loudly in the little bar, even over the sound of the jukebox.

Doyle’s eyes narrowed and his fists clenched as Skull looked down at Trisha and laughed.

His laughter was cut short as Doyle shot out a fist, slamming Skull in his jaw. Skull staggered backward a pace. He whirled on Doyle and swung back at him. Doyle weaved out of the way as Skull’s massive hand sliced through the air where his head had been.

Doyle kicked at Skull’s knee, hearing bone crunch a bit. Skull grunted and swung at Doyle again. This Doyle was too slow and it connected with his nose.

Doyle fell to the floor, his face exploding with pain. He clutched at his nose as it spurted blood. His hand hit a spiked texture and he numbly realized what had happened. His demon side had been triggered and he hastily tried to reel it back in.

Skull looked at Doyle, who was laying on the floor, hiding his face from view of the crowd. He kicked at the Irishman’s ribs, hearing a solid thump as his steel-toed boots hit bone. He smiled lazily, revealing huge gaps in his teeth from previous fights. Doyle grimaced, but didn’t try to get up. He tried harder to change back, but he was too intoxicated to gain control.

Rage welled up inside Doyle; he jumped to his feet and swung at Skull. Skull’s eyes went wide and he didn’t move a muscle. Doyle’s demon side was much stronger than his human and the blow he delivered to Skull’s crotch was more than adequate to fell the giant biker.

Skull crashed to the sawdust laden floor, his face blue and his hands clutched to his throbbing crotch. Trisha stared at him, then back at Doyle, then back at Skull. Before he could blink, she was on her feet, her nails curled into claws.

“Don’t touch my man! Demon!” She screeched like an eagle and smacked Doyle across his spiky face. She didn’t seem to care that her hand was bleeding, nor the pain in her elbow. “Demon!” She repeated, clawing at him. Doyle took a step backward, seeing the terrified looks on the hard-bitten customers.

Suddenly a shot rang out, erupting through the now silent bar. The sound made Trisha skitter, and she stopped in her assault on Doyle. She looked behind her and ran back to Skull, who was still rolling in pain on the floor.

Doyle looked up above the crowd and saw Jimmy standing on the bar top, a shotgun pointed straight at him. Doyle’s heart sank at the disgusted look on the old man’s face.

“Get the fuck out of my bar you freak!” Jimmy spat, his lips curled back over his yellow teeth. “Don’t ever come back or I’ll put a whole in your head!”

Doyle stared up at his old friend, turned enemy in a single second. Doyle didn’t hesitate as he ran out of the bar, his face changing back as his fear and rage left him. The night air hit his sweaty face as he ran out of the doors and into the street.

He took down the street, completely sober by the night’s events. A block from the bar, he slowed down, a stitch in his side. He stopped and leaned against a brick wall, his breath heaving in his chest.

Too close, that was too close. Doyle thought, his heart racing. Slowly he calmed himself down and started back towards home, a lump of shame in his throat.

Too close. Too close.

THE END.