Fic: A Man Walks Into a Bar (AtS) 1/1
Feb. 14th, 2010 02:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gilascaveTitle: A Man Walks Into a Bar
Author: James
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~650
Fandom: Buffyverse
Characters: Doyle, Oz.
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit made
Notes: written for heuradys for the help_haiti auction. Please ignore any oddities in the canonical timeline. These are not the facts you're looking for!
Summary: A half-man, half-demon walks into a bar.
Doyle walked into the bar and paused, glancing around the room before heading further inside. It wasn't exactly where he was supposed to be right now -- but quite frankly, tomorrow was soon enough for that and what he wanted right now was to get blisteringly drunk. If The Powers That Were didn't like it, they could give their splitting headaches to someone else.
He was about to head for a table near the back when he caught a curious glance from a young man sitting at the bar. No aggression in his gaze, nor boredom, which made him unique in the entire place. Just mild curiousity, which got Doyle's interest up. He was used to all sorts of expressions, from violent to come-hither to what-scraped-you-off-its-boot-and-left-you-here. But mild curiousity simply didn't happen to him.
As he drew around the corner of the bar and got closer, he realised why. He almost turned and walked off, confrontation well-left alone, when he realised something odd. So he sat down beside the young werewolf, gave him a friendly nod, and blinked.
"You're drinking root beer."
The young man looked at him for a moment, then nodded, slowly. "Not old enough to drink the real stuff," he said after a moment. His manner hadn't changed since Doyle had sat down -- mild curiousity, and a relaxed calm about him that reminded Doyle that the full moon was a good two weeks away. Even friendly werewolves got prickly when the full moon got close.
"Then -- and excuse me for prying, but how did you get past the door?"
Another shrug. Then, "bouncer recognised me. Species. Guess he figured I was older than I looked. Didn't card me," he added, as Doyle just continued to stare at him in confusion.
"Makes sense," Doyle admitted, despite the fact it didn't make any sense at all. "So why come to a bar if you're not drinking?" It occurred to him a second later that it could be a very stupid question. But Brachen blood tasted nasty as hell to werewolves, so even if this one was out looking for its next prey -- it might not be Doyle.
Maybe.
But the guy just gave a half-smile. "Wanted someplace quiet."
Doyle blinked again. He looked slowly around the bar, in case he'd walked into the wrong one. But he recognised the place from every other time he'd come in here to get plastered. He gave the guy an incredulous stare. "So you come into an Irish bar? Granted, it's LA and not a proper Irish pub back home. But -- still." He waved in the general direction of the noise as men, demons, and a few whatevers talked and argued and tried to pick fights before things got broken up by the Ipshi demons who worked the place as bouncers.
All he got in response was another shrug. The tiny smile didn't go away, though, and Doyle just nodded.
"Right. I suppose it depends on what you're used to." He glanced over as the bartender finally made his way over. To the werewolf he said, "If you'll excuse me, I didn't come here for quiet -- I came here to get very drunk." To the bartender he said, "A purple hedgehog, please."
He wasn't worried about ordering one -- the bartender was a Spacthio demon, and knew how to mix a proper drink. Doyle had learned the hard way never to order on Thursdays when Carl worked the bar; Doyle had taken one look at the glass with an actual hedgehog crammed into it, and had promptly lost his lunch.
His companion waited quietly until Doyle got his drink, then raised his bottle of root beer in a half-salute. Doyle clinked his glass -- vodka, syntheticdubnuj acid and a handful of crushed blackberries for color.
"To Hell with Fate," Doyle said, offering his toast.
The young werewolf blinked, then his smile grew wider. He nodded, then took a long drink of his soda. "To Hell with Her."
the end
Author: James
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~650
Fandom: Buffyverse
Characters: Doyle, Oz.
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit made
Notes: written for heuradys for the help_haiti auction. Please ignore any oddities in the canonical timeline. These are not the facts you're looking for!
Summary: A half-man, half-demon walks into a bar.
Doyle walked into the bar and paused, glancing around the room before heading further inside. It wasn't exactly where he was supposed to be right now -- but quite frankly, tomorrow was soon enough for that and what he wanted right now was to get blisteringly drunk. If The Powers That Were didn't like it, they could give their splitting headaches to someone else.
He was about to head for a table near the back when he caught a curious glance from a young man sitting at the bar. No aggression in his gaze, nor boredom, which made him unique in the entire place. Just mild curiousity, which got Doyle's interest up. He was used to all sorts of expressions, from violent to come-hither to what-scraped-you-off-its-boot-and-left-you-here. But mild curiousity simply didn't happen to him.
As he drew around the corner of the bar and got closer, he realised why. He almost turned and walked off, confrontation well-left alone, when he realised something odd. So he sat down beside the young werewolf, gave him a friendly nod, and blinked.
"You're drinking root beer."
The young man looked at him for a moment, then nodded, slowly. "Not old enough to drink the real stuff," he said after a moment. His manner hadn't changed since Doyle had sat down -- mild curiousity, and a relaxed calm about him that reminded Doyle that the full moon was a good two weeks away. Even friendly werewolves got prickly when the full moon got close.
"Then -- and excuse me for prying, but how did you get past the door?"
Another shrug. Then, "bouncer recognised me. Species. Guess he figured I was older than I looked. Didn't card me," he added, as Doyle just continued to stare at him in confusion.
"Makes sense," Doyle admitted, despite the fact it didn't make any sense at all. "So why come to a bar if you're not drinking?" It occurred to him a second later that it could be a very stupid question. But Brachen blood tasted nasty as hell to werewolves, so even if this one was out looking for its next prey -- it might not be Doyle.
Maybe.
But the guy just gave a half-smile. "Wanted someplace quiet."
Doyle blinked again. He looked slowly around the bar, in case he'd walked into the wrong one. But he recognised the place from every other time he'd come in here to get plastered. He gave the guy an incredulous stare. "So you come into an Irish bar? Granted, it's LA and not a proper Irish pub back home. But -- still." He waved in the general direction of the noise as men, demons, and a few whatevers talked and argued and tried to pick fights before things got broken up by the Ipshi demons who worked the place as bouncers.
All he got in response was another shrug. The tiny smile didn't go away, though, and Doyle just nodded.
"Right. I suppose it depends on what you're used to." He glanced over as the bartender finally made his way over. To the werewolf he said, "If you'll excuse me, I didn't come here for quiet -- I came here to get very drunk." To the bartender he said, "A purple hedgehog, please."
He wasn't worried about ordering one -- the bartender was a Spacthio demon, and knew how to mix a proper drink. Doyle had learned the hard way never to order on Thursdays when Carl worked the bar; Doyle had taken one look at the glass with an actual hedgehog crammed into it, and had promptly lost his lunch.
His companion waited quietly until Doyle got his drink, then raised his bottle of root beer in a half-salute. Doyle clinked his glass -- vodka, syntheticdubnuj acid and a handful of crushed blackberries for color.
"To Hell with Fate," Doyle said, offering his toast.
The young werewolf blinked, then his smile grew wider. He nodded, then took a long drink of his soda. "To Hell with Her."
the end