A/N

Hey peeps!

Okay, I have a confession to make. You know how I said in Chapter 10 that I had to keep rewriting this scene? Well, this is actually the ninth time I've had to rewrite it from scratch (delete-happy brother, remember?), so as you can imagine, it was a little difficult for me to do. I actually only got as far as Doyle's fourth idea, and then I pretty much gave up for a couple of days.

That was when I started moaning to a friend that I was totally blocked on the scene. She grabbed pen and paper and promptly picked my brains for all of the details I could remember about the scene...who does what, when and where and roughly what people said. She then wrote a rough sketch of the scene and handed it over to me to type and polish.

So, you see, I was really more of a co-writer than an actual writer in this scene and a large amount of the credit should go to The Cooler King. Without her help I would have been truly lost and you guys would have probably had to wait another couple of weeks before I managed to update.

Anyway, that' enough blabber from me...on with the fic!

Day Three, Somewhere over the Pacific, Trouble with an engine (Although the passengers don't know)

Doyle staggered back from the dinky aeroplane toilet, random thoughts lazily drifting through his brain.

He knew he'd had a good idea a moment ago, but what was it?

Where does aeroplane toilet waste go? On second thoughts, he didn't want to find that one out.

Spike Angel's blood? No, he'd done that already.

Aeroplane companies would make a bomb if they started charging for alcohol? No, everyone knew that.

Find Cordelia and tell her how much she meant to him? Yes! That was the idea! And amazingly, it actually seemed to make sense. To Doyle at least.

Doyle looked around him, struggling to focus. Hold on. He thought. Where am I? He squinted and tilted his head thirty-five degrees to the right, a sure-fire cure of his in order to enable him to focus in times of blind drunkenness. The interior of the plane rushed into focus, through his eyes, down his brain and melted out of his ears. At least, that was what it felt like to Doyle.

Concentrating hard, he looked around him in an attempt to locate his seat.

Full, full, full...ah, empty. Of course, those seats were his and Cordy's. Cordy was there, her head buried in a magazine and right across the aisle from her there was an empty seat. This was his chance! He could tell the woman he loved his innermost secret feelings.

Doyle plodded along the aisle, trying to think sober thoughts. He fell into the empty chair - nearly squashing a businessman in the next seat - and slumped down in it, almost sliding off of the edge.

Feeling nauseous, he took a deep breath, exhaled and turned to Cordelia.

"I love you!" He announced loudly.

Cordelia slowly turned to face him. "I beg your pardon." She said icily.

Doyle continued, determined to get his feelings for her off of his chest. "Your face is so beautiful...Your lovely brown eyes...your full, pouty mouth..." Doyle squinted at Cordelia's mouth. "Are you not wearing lipstick today?"

Cordelia opened her mouth and, sensing an interruption, Doyle ploughed onwards. "Your arms." He continued. "And your legs!" He groaned. "Everything about you." He leaned closer and dropped his voice a fraction lower. "I sometimes dream about you." He confided. "I'm stroking your hair, your soft hair, all thick and soft and short... did you cut your hair? Anyway, then I usually have to go away and stroke something else, but that's not the point. The point is that I love everything about you. Your face, your glasses, your wrinkles, your stuffy suit..." Doyle realised what he was saying and leaned even closer to Cordelia to get a clearer look at her. "Hey!" He said, sending a wave of whiskey-soaked breath Cordelia's way. "You're not Cordelia!" He accused. He looked even closer. "You're a guy!" Doyle belatedly realised. And it was a guy he recognised.

Carefully attempted to school his expression, Doyle got up and walked away, followed by a wave of laughter from Buffy and her friends.

Of all the people he had to mistake Cordy for, he mused bitterly, why did it have to be the old guy travelling with the Slayer?

Meanwhile, in the seat in front of Giles, a red-faced Cordelia slouched behind her magazine. She was desperately praying to the God she no longer truly believed in that the group behind her would recognise her and associate her with the drunken man that had just informed Giles that he liked to think about stroking his soft, thick hair!