Denial. Doyle could sit all night in his yellow sofa and drink. Or he could stand up and take charge. Poor Cordelia was broken up enough over Angel's death; she didn't need a drive down self-destructive Doyle lane.
He'd failed to stop Angel from sacrificing himself. He'd hired that ex-Watcher to join their motley crew after they'd saved Cordelia. The man with the polite British accent and eager to please manner, dressed in out-of-place black leather.
Of course, in his grief, Doyle had mistaken that for more. He'd invited the man home. Sometimes a good shag could keep one's mind off the pain. He'd been a fool. Shagging the boss wasn't in Wesley's job description.
Wesley had turned down the offer -- all polite and the like. Left on his motorcycle. The man wasn't gay, only British.
Doyle was a fool. He needed to call Cordelia. To make sure she was safe. That she was okay. He reached for his address book. A piece of paper fell out.
This is not the way things should be. I'm afraid that I've given you the wrong impression. I am interested in you. But I want the possibility of more than one night.