On The Run
So, the universe had decided he needed a reminder of who he really was and where he really fit in the grand scheme of things. He must have been getting too cocky, seemed to be doing alright, pulling himself too far up in the world, thinking things were finally going right. Oh no - couldn't have that, not for Doyle. So whoever it was out there that watched over these things, whichever bastard it was in change of fate, had obviously decided to have some fun and tweaked things to remind Doyle of his real place, to smack him back down in the dirt and let him know that no matter what higher purpose he thought he served, he would always be a lowlife and a loser.
There had been a cailiff demon wanting money waiting for him when he got home. He didn't know who this demon worked for or how much it was he even owed - but he could tell from the much larger demon's glower that things were not going to end well for Doyle.
Fortunately, what he lacked in brawn he made up for in brains. With no weapon to hand - though going from the size of this demon a frontal attack would not be a good idea anyway - he had tricked the cailiff into following him over to the chest of drawers, pretending the money was in there. The demon knew something was up - trapping Doyle's hand and asking about a gun - but Doyle denied all knowledge and, once his hand was free, yanked the drawer right out of the frame, hit the cailiff over the head with it and ran.
But now he was out in the city, alone and too frightened to go home. It was dark, it was late and it was surprisingly chilly for a place that was so burning hot during the day. Plus his hand hurt, where the cailif had trapped it, his knuckles were starting to bruise.
After fleeing the building, he'd scarpered down an alleyway, put on his demon face to jump a chain link fence and then ran helter skelter through the back roads until he had no idea where he was, but was pretty sure the demon wouldn't find him. Only now he didn't know what to do.
He couldn't go home - that would be suicide. He couldn't head to a bar and take shelter - so he just wandered, wrapping his leather coat tightly around him. Eventually he stumbled past a liquor store, went inside and bought himself a bottle of scotch. The cashier wrapped the bottle in its brown paper bag and Doyle took it from him thanking him, cracking the lid off it as soon as he was back out on the street.
He found a bench, sat on it and drank some more. His hand was hurting. He took a few more glugs of liquor to try and drink away the pain. And then he looked at himself. Really looked at himself.
What was he doing? How was this happening? Things had been going so much better for him, recently - and yet here he was living like it was the mid 90s and he'd only just found out about his demon half. He was supposed to be better than this now.
The breeze blew a little stronger, disturbing the litter and blowing it down the street. He turned up the collar of the jacket. So was this it for the night? Was he going to hang out on a bench and drink away the cold - like some homeless guy with nowhere to go and no one to care?
But it wasn't true that he had no one to care. He had friends now - he could get off this bench and go to them. OK, so Cordy would be less than impressed if he just turned up on her doorstep, clutching a bottle, and asking to stay. And there wasn't really anywhere for him to stay at hers. Her bed and the sofa were one and the same, and much as he enjoyed the night they had cuddled up on the sofa and fallen asleep - he didn't kid himself another night like it was in the offing.
But Cordy wasn't the only person he had to turn to. He could head back to work. Speak to Angel. Angel would let him crash on the sofa … but he wouldn't do it without asking questions - and Doyle found that he did not want to give the answers. For some reason - and he wasn't sure why - maybe it was just pride, which would be surprising as it was long time since he had had any of that - but for some reason he did not want his friends to know he had messed up, he didn't want them to know the state he had got himself into.
So tomorrow, he would have to go into work and pretend everything was OK. Which meant he couldn't spend all night on a park bench, or walking the streets - just how tired he would be would give it away. He needed to find somewhere secure that he could rest.
He struggled back to his feet and began to walk. He came to a motel in Boyle Heights, a real skeevy dive of a place - but it would have a bed, and a door he could lock. The carpets would be sticky, the air would be smoky, the curtains moth eaten, the ice machine broken … but it would be better than a park bench.
The place rented rooms by the hour - of course it did, it was that sort of place. He checked his watch to see how late it was and to work out how early he could feasibly turn back up at work tomorrow.
He asked the hourly rate, blushing a little when he saw the conspiratorial smirk the guy behind the desk gave him. 'Got someone coming over?' the greasy man asked.
'...Yes. We might be a while.' He held up the liquor, 'we'll be havin' a party.'
The man winked, 'so how long do you want the room for.'
Doyle looked at his watch again. 'Four hours?'
'You must have stamina,' the man said, taking the money off him and handing over a key.
'It's my middle name.' He took the key, nodded his thanks and trudged up the staircase to his room.
The room was just as desperate as he thought it would be. But it had a ceiling, four walls and a door - it was better than nothing. He locked the door, bolting it shut, kicked his shoes off and then lay down on the bed fully clothed. He didn't even remove his jacket. He just had time to set an alarm for four hours time before he fell asleep.
He didn't want to get up, when the alarm started to beep - but then he didn't want to pay for an extra hour either. So he forced himself upright and wriggled his feet back into his shoes. He looked at the liquor standing on the bedside table. He couldn't turn up at work clutching that and still fool his friends into thinking everything was OK. So - even though there was still more than half in there, he left it behind.
Once he'd handed the keys back in, not meeting the greasy man's eyes as he tried to smirk at him, he went back to walking the streets. He walked past a coffee shop just opening up its shutters and he went in, bought a coffee and sat at a table while he drank it. By the time he was done, the sun was pretty much risen in the sky, and he figured he could go into work - just pretend he was early for a change. No one would need to know there was anything wrong.
He trudged through the streets back to the office. The building was quiet and the door was locked when he got there, so he let himself in with his key. His hand gave a twinge and he glanced down at it, frowning. His knuckles were badly bruised now - an ugly blackish red stain streaking across his hand. Angel would notice. He could only hope Cordy would not notice that he was in the same clothes as yesterday.
He checked his watch. It was too early for him to be here. But what choice did he have? He'd just have to go downstairs and pretend nothing was wrong.
