Yes, Zaedah still believes a Doyle-less universe is too cruel to be allowed. No, this is not denial. This is sanity saving fiction! With that, I present chapter one for your enjoyment...

Rooftop Diving

The magazine failed to hold her attention. Not the hair sculpting tips. Not the latest lip shades. Not even the sex tips, although that blushingly in-depth article came closest to derailing her train of strangely focused thoughts. No, something kept shoving aside the pleasantly pointless inner ramblings that normally passed as her regular brain function. Unbidden, unexpected, mildly unwelcome. Typically, Cordelia Chase could slap a fresh coat of distraction paint to cover such single-minded moments. She wasn't known for deep and reflective contemplations, unless the subject was evening wear. Like a demonic jack-in-the-box, one person sprung up in annoying fashion, the lid refusing to stay down.

He'd been quiet tonight. Angel noticed too and chose to ignore it. Apparently, the 'How To Be A Vampire' manual saved a chapter for the skill of circumvention. Doyle wasn't known for dark moods, though Cordelia occasionally suspected he was a far better actor than she. Not that such a sacrilegious thought deserved audible words. The cheerful greetings and optimistic quips seemed second nature to the little Irish man, but random chips in the façade had appeared lately. Somber was better worn by the tall dark and broody. Sober was something Doyle wore next to never. The slip in customary form, dressed in compliments and completely unveiled flirting, made it all the more conspicuous. Not that she noticed him. Cordelia Chase reserved notice for designer shoes, private jets and thick wallets. And she'd cling to her personal truth, the one written in queen-worthy calligraphy, like one clutches half-priced Gucci.

Carnage and destruction achieved, daylight now approached to signal the end of their professional work day. As Angel perfected his aimless loitering in shadowed corners, Doyle had taken a glass and a hidden bottle of scotch and headed to the roof. He'd thought no one was looking, of course, but she had been watching him covertly most of the evening. Not that she'd call it watching. Doyle just happened to occasionally meander into her line of sight, and failing that, she peeked.

Cordy knew what to expect. An unapologetic alcoholic, the Irishman would need a truckload of aspirin tomorrow. Most people had a reason for their addiction and it suddenly bothered her that she didn't know her coworker well enough to have mined the cause of his. Actually, she knew very little about him, which should have been a source of pride. Below her notice as he was, Cordelia liked to think she was favoring him by directing her speech to him sometimes. It was all part of the grand scheme not to care. Purposeful aloofness was a Sunnyvale specialty and one that served her well. Simple things like Doyle's favorite color or how long he'd been in this country escaped her knowledge. And it didn't seem fair, considering how much he knew, and instinctively understood, about her. All Cordy knew of his past was a relationship in the form of a gorgeous ex-wife and his messenger gig for the PTB; splitting migraines the majority of the job description. No wonder he drank so much. Speaking of…

The vision seemed to take Freddie Kruger nails to Doyle's mind today. Well, more than usual. The intensity of the tremor and visible agony was ratcheted to a decibel level only dogs could perceive. Yet he'd simply given them a location and they were off, a trio of avengers needing only spandex and codenames. Normally he just needed a bit of time, a double malt scotch and buckets of painkillers to recover and tonight seemed no different to the untrained eye. Scrunching her nose in distaste, Cordy realized she'd been studying him longer than she'd realized. Damn, she hated when she surprised herself. But there was something nagging in the back of Cordy's skull that kept her mind filtering through tonight's seemingly unimportant moments. Most nights, the staggering sensory impact was almost nil. So what if demons slobbered on corpses in dark alleys? As long as they didn't drool on her ensemble, it was filed under 'normal day.'

Still, something made her eyes follow him behind the handy camouflage of her magazine. And Cordy wasn't the only one. Once they'd returned to the office, Angel had tried to subtly question Doyle. For a talker, the man could clam up at the drop of a Vera Wang beret. The boss wondered aloud why the PTB gave him such a lengthy vision for so little information. Doyle had shrugged it off, dodging the issue with no attempt at charm or placating. Neither she nor Angel bought the 'no big deal' act but both let it go. There was no sense pushing him. He'd only drink more later.

It was the direction of these jumbled thoughts that prompted her to unfold her now-numb legs from beneath her tingling backside to rise from her seat. When body parts are asleep, it's tough to be graceful but the lack of an audience helped. Angel had wished her a good night moments before, the elevator's creaking confirming her freedom to plot unseen. Cordelia looked to the stairs, debating the wisdom of her next step. Catching sight of Doyle's brown leather jacket slung over the computer chair, she rationalized that it was chilly tonight and someone should bring his coat to him. Opening the rooftop door with all the hush a set of rusty hinges allows, Cordelia sought the object of her appallingly uncontrolled thoughts. Leaning against the wall, Doyle's eyes were cast to the heavens. A glass of scotch sat on the ledge, and he fingered it absently. The bottle was obscured from view and she could only guess how much he'd already consumed. The man could down liquor faster than she could spend money. When she'd had it.

Unfortunately, her eyes sent visual confirmation to her brain and the thought that registered first was nearly appalling. This grungy slacker guy was kind of cute. When did that happen? Was it a trick of the lighting…or lack thereof? A solitary silhouette against the canvas of night, city lights casting a favorable glow on muted features. Yeah, that explained it. He was no Angel, but in that moment, no less attractive. And now she'd have to gouge her delusional eyes out.

Attempting to gauge him from a distance failed. So she set aside hormonal musings and set about clinically taking in what she could. Really, this was not a complicated guy. He was tired, that much she knew already. His shoulders were bowed and the outer wall was employed in holding him up. Not enough time had passed for him to need the steadying support; even Doyle couldn't drink that fast. He didn't seem at all bothered by the October chill, wearing only a dark blue button down shirt that covered a black t-shirt, one undoubtedly bearing some obscure band's logo. Maybe he was used to the cold. Did they have winter in Ireland? She'd have to ask. The wind blew goosebumps onto her arms and she looked at the jacket in her hand with a grin. Donning it with supermodel flourish, Cordy took a moment to breath in the leather, which carried a scent just shy of clean. Slobbering demons tend to leave a trace, just ask her knock-off pradas. Cordelia squared her shoulders and strutted to the wall.

"And I'm sure we've had enough," Cordelia announced as she stole the full glass from his hand. Carelessly dumping the contents over the ledge, she turned back to him with a victorious smile. And just the slightest worry that someone below was now haplessly wet.

"First one," Doyle informed her, only mildly annoyed at the intrusion.

"Uh-huh," she teased, not at all convinced. Closing the distance with a habitual sauntering sway, she stopped mere inches away. And suddenly it seemed too far. Damn, was this some spontaneously birthed crush and when did she order it 'to go?' The glass was released to a spot on the ledge just north of even.

"Don't trust me?" His husky tone, new to her ears, was just a bit intoxicating. She wondered if he knew that.

Of course, there was an easy way to detect his alcohol consumption. And it didn't shock her in the least that she thought of it. Nor that she intended to pursue it. He certainly wouldn't protest. Had it been daytime, the decision would have been burnt away in the sunlight. In the pioneering spirit of all good exploration, Cordy ran a daring hand through his short hair, noting with the refreshing lack of boy-hair products. Her palm came to rest at the back of his head. Pulling him closer, she let her mouth float over his before dragging her tongue across his bottom lip. Tasting no alcohol there, she deemed further evidence necessary. But when the suddenly possessed Cordelia moved in for more, Doyle held back.

"We can't." His words were spoken with soft regret. But Cordy, unused to rejection, scanned his eyes to find a 'no,' coming up empty.

"Sure about that?" She returned with a Marilyn-esque breathlessness she hoped would change his mind. Why, she couldn't say.

When Doyle opened his mouth to counter her remark, Cordy cut him off by thrusting her tongue inside, sweeping within. Whatever hesitation he'd had initially was eclipsed by instinct. His tongue found hers as his hands tugged her hips nearer. Cordy's arms slid around his neck and any shyness was gone as she took what she wanted. Thanks Faith, lesson learned. And he submitted to her plan, stroking her tongue's length with such dedication that she forgot to be embarrassed she hadn't flossed this morning. As he explored her mouth thoroughly, she was forced to cling to him for upright support. Near orgasmic moment achieved with just this contact. How likely was that? Moaning against him, her hips moving involuntarily in a light grind that would have shamed her mother. But she wanted him. Dear God, did she want him. Funny how she didn't want him yesterday. Or even this morning.

Then, just as suddenly as she began it, Doyle broke away, catching his breath while she fought to put her brain back in gear. In the space of one kiss, Cordelia Chase knew she was in lo… well, trouble at any rate. And probably had been for some time. Why was she always the last to freakin' know?

Catching his breath first, Doyle smirked just a bit. "Good t'ing the cops don' check sobriety that way." But the tease evaporated into a pool of liquid seriousness. "What're ye doin'?"

Cordelia pulled back to look at him. "Trying to figure out if Kate was right." At his questioning gaze, she added, "About how you feel about me."

The fleeting blush was a blaring clue. "And kissin' me gives you insight, then."

Hmmm…gave her more than that. "I could have asked." She conceded.

"Aye, you coulda."

"But you wouldn't have answered. Not with the truth, anyway." At the challenge, he dropped his gaze, a silent admittance that the observation was right.

Cordy permitted him a moment to arrange his thoughts around the idea of truth, then tightened her arms around his neck, effectively trapping him in the embrace. His hands hadn't released their firm hold on her hips, which was considered rather promising. As his eyes returned to hers, she took advantage of this closeness to examine the contours of the muted emerald shade. It was as though this particular version of green was an undiscovered color she was seeing for the first time.

"What're ye doin' Cordy?" He repeated.

"Are you complaining?"

"And Angel says I'm evasive," he muttered. Reaching up, he pulled her arms down and pinned them to her side. She tried to move within the new confines but he was stronger than he looked. After a moment he released her, reached for the bottle and started for the stairs. 20 seconds later, she remembered to be entirely offended. Storming after him, Cordelia caught up just as he opened the door. Reaching past him, she used her momentum to slam the door closed before he could slip through it. Having an arm nearly amputated by steel door, Doyle appeared less than friendly when he spun to face her. Cordy refused to be intimidated by the rare display of anger and insisted that her eyes not find it attractive.

"Cord-"

"Don't walk away from me. We're not done yet."

He looked to the stars for mercy. "Done what?"

"Making things…" Of all times for her logic to fail, "different between us?" Yes, it was a question, like a child hoping a frail excuse passed the quasi-parental test.

Incredulous barely described his expression. "That you did."

Cordelia tried to get this back on track. "Look, I came up here to talk."

"That you didn'," he reminded her and she couldn't hold back the flushed cheeks that undid the work of her morning makeup routine.

"No. Can we?" The kindergarten voice that squeaked out of her throat made her cringe.

"And if I say no?" But she knew by his tone he wouldn't make good on that. In the end, he was such a push over.

"I'll hold your jacket hostage." She snuggled further into the leather to accentuate her point. Then coughed a bit at the resurgence of demon-odor.

Doyle allowed a frustrated nod, taking a long drink straight from the bottle as he walked back to the wall. To fortify himself, she imagined. Rejoining him there, Cordy reformulated her plan of attack. It had been so clear when she was kissing him. She was learning things quickly, like how he didn't like to be cornered. How he disliked direct questions. How beyond average he kissed. Which of the many queries should she launch first?

"Tonight's vision was totally intense. Why did you lie about it?"

His jaw clenched and he kept his gaze from her, opting for another drink. She'd watched others drink strong liquor and enjoyed the painful wince that typically followed. But Doyle swallowed it as though it was water. Just when she thought no answer was coming, he hung his head.

"Why does it matter?"

"Tell you what?" A patient mothering voice surfaced. "How 'bout you answer me first. Then you get a turn. Then me. All honest, all fair. Right?" Her enthusiastic explanation of the 'game' earned her the slightest grin.

"Ye want 20 questions at 3 in the mornin'?"

"You game?" She gave his shoulder a nudge to seal the deal. "So…the vision?"

Doyle's reluctance was telling. He was deciding how little he needed to say to be convincing. Stealing Angel's ploy to use against her. "It wasn't much worse than any other."

"Have you wanted to kiss me before?"

Doyle turned sharply to her. "Oh no, supermodel. My turn." The devious grin did wicked things to her concentration. "Am I gettin' my jacket back?"

"But it looks so much better on me." Batting her lashes coyly, she watched him give her an appreciative once over. Her skin heated at the attention and she threatened her inner schoolgirl with detention.

"Can' deny that." There was that deliciously low tone again. Making it quite impossible to talk. Damn it, that was his goal, wasn't it? Distraction.

Two can play at that game, she decided. "My turn. Did you want to kiss me?"

"Sorry. Can' ask the same question twice." He took another drink and her hands itched to smash that bottle.

Cordelia drew on her favorite expression; the devastated pout. "Says who? Besides, I reworded it…"

"What? Only you get to set the rules?"

Oh, he was good. But this was far more familiar territory. Bickering with a side of tease. Settling back against the wall, Cordelia plotted a new strategy. "Fine. Lightening round. Why do you drink so much?" The tactlessness of her words visibly struck him and she momentarily regretted uttering them.

"Maybe I need to. Why does it bother you so much?"

Because it means you've been hurting way too long, her Oprah-laced mind supplied. "Addiction destroys people. Is self-destruction your goal?"

His eyes took on a pained sheen. "I trust the visions'll do that for me. Why'd ye really come up here?"

"Because you were too quiet. And it worried me. Do you always notice women's shoes or am I a special case?"

That earned her a half smile, dimple making an appearance. "Special case. D'ya always carry barrels of aspirin or is that just for me?"

The dreaded blush returned. He really did notice everything. "For you." And speaking of vision pain… "What else did you see?"

He looked away, the stars enjoying his focus. "What makes ye t'ink there was more to it?"

"Besides your obvious unwillingness to discuss it? It was harsh this time. Too harsh. Angel thought so too. And you didn't answer me. Losing points now."

"I…" he began, then bit his lip. "I saw t'ings not related to Angel's work. Happens sometimes."

God, blood from stone anyone? "What things?"

He returned his gaze to her just long enough to put a finger to her lips. "Wasn't your turn. You forfeit. Game over."

The punctuation to that sentence was his leaving. Not quite ready to end this already surreal conversation, her hand shot out to grip his arm. "One more question?" His back was turned but he remained still and she gathered up her courage. "Did you want to kiss me?"

Pulling gently out of her grasp, Doyle walked back to the door, leaving her gaping at the wall. Numb, she watched him open the door and step inside. Just before closing it, he turned back to her and even with the distance, she could see the storm brewing in his eyes.

"You have no idea." Then he was gone.

Wrapping the jacket tighter in the face of the cold, Cordelia peered out into the night sky. Why did people say there were answers up there? The numerous blinking plane lights served as the only stars one managed to see in this city. But Cordelia's heart was warmed immeasurably by his answer; a roundabout yes. A glint caught her eye just to her left. Looking to the wall's ledge, she found the bottle of scotch waiting where he had been standing. Something told her he'd left it intentionally and it made her smile. There were probably others inside, but worry caused wrinkles. She pondered how long it would take for her to replace his addiction and since thoughts of this type were new to her brain, it tried to dislodge it through a full-body shiver. It failed. She could think of a few habits that were less destructive and happened to require a pair of humans. A few more rooftop talks and they just might get somewhere. The destination was frightening, but the journey seemed more interesting than the demon she spotted in a mangled puddle below. Doyle's empty glass sat innocently next to her and she grinned at the liquefied corpse. Must be one of those 'liquor intolerant' types.

There was almost sympathy to be felt for the bubbling mass of death on the sidewalk. As surely as Cordelia Chase stood aloft on this safe rooftop, some part of her had firmly dived off into the unknown. The last of the twenty questions remained; can she fly?