Disclaimer: I do not own any of the rights to Angel. Or Doyle, for that matter. Maybe one day, but not today.

"Hey there, stranger," Marilyn Demarco called as her oldest and dearest customer strode into the club. "We haven't seen you for the last couple nights – what, you quit drinking?"

Alan Francis Doyle grinned widely at her, the light of mischief dancing in his blue-grey eyes.

"Nev'r in million years, darlin'."

Marilyn returned his smile and placed his usual single-malt scotch on the bar, hooking a glossy brown ringlet of hair behind her ear as she did so. She was exceptionally pretty, with a smile constantly shining from her viridian eyes, even if it didn't show on her lips. She was unusual, though, because unlike every other pretty woman who worked in L.A., she hadn't moved there trying to make it (whatever 'it' was) as an actress. Being the proprietor of an unfashionable retro nightclub was sincerely enough for her.

At least it was if Doyle kept coming in. Of course, Doyle had noticed that Marilyn was pretty. They had had a little fling of sorts when they first met, but Marilyn had refused to let herself get into another relationship with a drunk, no matter how much fun he was. So they were just friends, officially, but Marilyn still had quite the soft spot for Doyle.

Doyle himself was currently sipping his scotch languidly, observing with casual interest the goings-on of the club. It was only eight o'clock, but the place was already fairly full of the usual crowd of cheap drinkers. The regulars loved Marilyn's for its value liquor and mix of tunes – nothing under twenty years old. Anything from 1960 to 1989, but never anything newer. As for Doyle, he wasn't really the dancing type, when he was sober. However, sobriety was seldom a particularly lengthy state for Doyle…

XXX

Two hours and about eight scotches later, Doyle was on the dance-floor, giving the big-fish-little-fish-cardboard-box treatment to 'Echo Beach.' Joining him with impressive enthusiasm was a young brunette girl with a vodka cocktail and an open mind.

Half an hour ago, Doyle had been ordered to the dance-floor by Marilyn, who was sick of him enthusing about 'Angela's Ashes' to the other patrons, saying that it was fantastic, "except the bit where Fred an' Wilma get divorced 'cause she's got Barney goin' on the side."

Now, he trotted back to the bar to fetch another round of drinks for himself and Melissa.

(At least, he thought her name was Melissa.)

As she poured his drink, Marilyn asked in an offhand sort of way,

"You know that girl you've been dancing with?"

"Yeh – Melissa."

"Melinda. She happens to be my little sister."

Doyle slapped his hand to the bar in a revelatory fashion.

"I shoulda known!" he cried, as his face split into a cheeky grin. "She kisses like you."

Marilyn mimicked Doyle's slapping motion, but hers was aimed at the Irishman's face. His head jerked sideways and he clutched at his cheek, before bursting out laughing. He hardly felt the pain. Looking sheepish, he ran a hand through his thick black hair and gave Marilyn an embarrassed half-smile.

"I was jokin', sweetheart…she's too young fer me. She's jus' me little Bam-Bam."

Marilyn laughed despite herself. Doyle took a swig of scotch and beamed at her, before returning to the dance-floor and Melinda…or was it Melissa?

Marilyn meanwhile smiled to herself. Doyle was a chancer, for sure, but he was charming along with it. Anyway, he would receive proper punishment for his cheek the next morning.

Punishment in the form of a killer hangover.

A/N: Just a short one; a bit of fun. But please, please review and tell me what you think!