Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, but from what I've seen in the last three seasons, Joss can keep 'em. I'm watching the show now and I don't even recognize the hollow shells that call themselves 'Willow', 'Giles', and 'Xander'.

Author's note: First serious fic, so if it's crap, bear with me. Not Doyle-centric (remember Doyle?) but he does play a major role. It's a WIP, but I promise to have a new chapter up every 2-3 weeks (depending on the length of the chapter).

In case you didn't get the insinuation in the Disclaimer, I don't like much of what happened to the show mid-season 4 and on. So I chucked it. That's why this story will start off completely canon, but may diverge a bit in later chapters. If anyone in the same camp as me would like to feed me plot bunnies for my next stories, I'll be more than welcome.

Feedback is good, like certain types of cheeses. But not that funky blue cheese stuff.

Dedicated to: Beta Reader and longtime girlfriend, Becky.

Setting: Early season four BtVS, first season AtS.

Parings: By some freak coincidence, I've picked a time period where all the characters are single. But still, it will develop into Buffy/Angel, Willow/Xander, and Doyle/Cordelia.

Prologue

Dream On

This is odd...

On some empty, unnamed street of L.A there stood a man. His blue eyes glinted as he looked up into the light of the full moon.

He blinked reflexively, unused to the harsh white glare.

He looked around nervously, trying to find out where he was. His brow furrowed, confused.

I've been here.

He tried to think abstractly to work it all out, then he gave that up. He tried just to think, to try and understand what was going on.

No good.

It was Los Angeles, City of Angels in Spanish, a sort of New York with palm trees and smog. He looked up, and the fact that it was a brilliantly clear night unnerved him more. Where was the comforting haze of man's contribution to nature in the sky?

Suddenly he was walking, without wanting to. He now had to go somewhere and it was essential that he get there as fast as possible.

He didn't know why though.

The fog rolled in.

Fog? In L.A? He wondered

He ran through the streets, until the roads between the buildings became smaller and smaller. The skyscrapers still towered above and around him, but the roads gradually became hallway size. He ran on, twisting and turning in the labyrinthine city.

And then he heard the voice. A sirens call, singing his name.

"Doyle."

Where before he had felt a sense of detachment from the dream, he now felt that he was a part of it. To the credit of his imagination, he didn't know if this was a dream of not, because it seemed like one of those dreams where you don't know if you're awake or sleeping.

He suddenly heard a piano being softly played behind him, its notes reflecting and refracting off of the silent towers of glass and steel above him. His vision was slowly breaking apart, the moon was beginning to strobe and-

His body turned to meet the music.

There, sitting at a piano in the middle of the narrow street, was a woman of breathtaking beauty, wearing a black dress, with skin pale and cold as the moonlight that illuminated the skyscrapers above.

Doyle knew immediately that she was something special, untouchable, and immortal.

Her fingers drifted ethereally over the ivory-white keys, barely seeming to touch them, but bringing out deep, bittersweet chords. Her back was to him as she played, and she gave no invitation, but Doyle walked to her. He came up to her slowly, not wanting to stop the music.

He slowly extended a hand and brushed her coal black hair away from her shoulder, touching her pale white skin.

Then the music changed, harsh and deadly like chilled poison. Doyle's hand shot back as if it was stuck by lightning. He had done something terribly wrong.

The woman's face turned, with a motion slow and fast as time itself. Her features reflected the black-on-white look of her dress and skin, and her dark eyes looked into Doyle's eyes like he was... nothing, staring at his naked soul.

He gasped.

He tried to blink, or to put up some sort of mental barrier to break the connection. For a fraction of a second he did, and he blocked her.

The way a man blocks a tidal wave by holding up his hand.

He felt her enter him, wash over him

Doyle screamed.

He screamed so hard that he almost woke up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To Be Continued…

(So, huh? How was it? I know it was only a dream sequence and all, but what? Too wordy/Not wordy enough? Constructive criticisms and other feedback's will rewarded with a cookie!)