Y'Goin' for a Pint ?
Chapter Three: Sandwiches, Satellites, Shenanigans and Soaked Spike
By Cyberwulf
Rated 12s (PG-13)
Spoilers : None in this part.
Disclaimer : Buffy, Angel and related characters belong to Joss Whedon and various other people who aren't me. "The Boys are Back in Town" belongs to Thin Lizzie. "Ace of Spades" belongs to Motorhead. "Paradise City" belongs to Guns 'n' Roses. Doyle's description of hurling is taken from The Jason Byrne Show.
Author's Notes : Thanks again all you lovely people for your lovely feedback! You gave me a lot of inspiration for this chapter. Once again, I apologise if Doyle is wildly out of character – I don't know him well at all, having only seen half an episode of Angel (it was that one about the red demons who wanted to eat him or something). Just put it down to him being very drunk. For the majority of you who aren't Irish, hurling IS a real game, RTE is Ireland's national broadcasting service, and they don't broadcast on satellite, which makes what Angel and Doyle do in this chapter even more ridiculous. Oh, there's a teensy bit of Buffy bashing at the start of this chapter, because she gets on my nerves sometimes. And speaking of the start . . .
"We should turn him onto his stomach," Willow remarked, gazing at the Watcher, who was now drooling as well as snoring. "In case he chokes."
Buffy glared at her, then stomped off downstairs. Willow ran to the top of the staircase and called after her.
"Hey! Where you going?"
"If you wanna stay here and play nurse then go ahead!" Buffy shouted, in that self-righteous 'I'm the Slayer and I'm better than everyone else and no-one understands that or knows what I have to go through' voice that makes you glad she dies. "I'm going home!"
"But Buffy-"
Willow winced as the door slammed. With a sigh, she went back into Giles' bedroom and proceeded to roll him over. (Calm yourselves, W/G shippers, that's not what I meant ;) And anyway, he's too drunk.)
"THE BOYS ARE BACK IN TOW-OW-OW-OWN, THE BOYS ARE BACK IN TOWN . . ."
Cordelia gritted her teeth and pushed Doyle and Angel into the mansion.
"I swear," she hissed to Xander, "if I never hear another Thin Lizzie record it'll be too soon."
"Shove on the Riverdance album!" Doyle yelled. " Let's have a hooley!"
Angel squinted at his watch. Or rather, at the five little singing clock- faces floating around his wrist.
"Wha-what timeisit?" he slurred.
"A-about two o'clock," Doyle hiccupped. "Two o'clock on a Saturday. . ." He fell over. Angel staggered over to the TV and started pushing buttons frantically.
"'Sup?" Doyle slurred from the floor.
"We're missing the match!" Angel replied.
"Wha' match?"
"The All-Ireland semi-final replay!" Angel yelled. He thumped the TV.
Cordelia and Xander exchanged glances.
"We won' gerri' over here," Doyle burped. "RTE don't broadcast in America . . ."
Angel had another good think.
"Unless . . ."
Willow had just finished making Wesley comfortable when there was a hammering at the door. Cautiously, she opened it. Spike stood there, dripping wet.
"Uh, hi, Spike," she said, wrinkling her nose.
"Relax," Spike hiccupped. "I hosed myself down with the Watcher's . . . hose . . . Look, can I use the toilet?"
"I, I don't know . . ." Willow replied.
"That's okay," Spike sighed. He dropped his voice to a whisper, and murmured, "I thought the answer might be no, so I pissed in the garden."
Willow grimaced.
"Gonna let me in, luv?" Spike asked. "I'm cold and wet and lost. Please?"
The puppy-dog eyes wore down Willow's resolve. "Okay. But you gotta behave."
"Thanks, pet," Spike slurred. He staggered across the threshold and lurched over to Wesley, passed out on the couch. He had a really good look at him. "Bloody hell, Rupert's lookin' well these days . . ."
"Uh, Spike?" Willow said. "That's Wesley."
Spike looked at her, then examined the sleeping form on the couch more closely.
"Fuck, you're right!" He looked up. "And here I was all night, thinking I was seeing double . . ." His stomach gurgled and he burped. Willow took a few steps back. Spike headed for the kitchen. " I need something to settle my stomach . . ."
Cordelia stood outside the mansion and gazed up in disbelief. Xander could hardly control himself.
"Man, I'd kill for a camera right now," he chuckled.
"I wash my hands of both of them," Cordelia declared. "Xander, you're my witness."
They watched as Angel, quietly chanting the words of 'Ace of Spades' to himself, climbed drunkenly up to the roof, and started waving the satellite dish around.
"Nah, still nothin'," Doyle yelled, sticking his head out of the window. He went back inside and fiddled with a few wires. Angel staggered along the middle of the roof, defying several laws of physics, until he reached a chimney.
"How's this?" he bawled.
"No-wait, wait, say nothin'! I'm getting something!" Doyle shouted. "Up another bih'!"
Angel climbed up on the chimney and started twirling around with the satellite dish over his head.
"I can't look!" Cordelia squealed, clamping both hands over her eyes. Xander gazed up in glee and fascination. Angel was balanced precariously on the edge of the chimney, standing on one leg, holding the satellite dish at arm's length.
"Just another bit ta the left!" Doyle shouted. Angel moved, overbalanced, rolled down the roof, fell several feet and landed in a rosebush, followed by the dish.
"No, 's gone," Doyle called. Angel struggled to sit up. Cordelia rushed to help. Miraculously, he was unhurt.
"Luck of a drunk," Xander commented.
"Ah, fuckit," Angel slurred. He let Cordelia half-walk, half-drag him back inside.
"What did you guys wanna watch, anyway?" Xander asked. "Soccer?"
"Soccer?!" Doyle exclaimed, staring at him as if he'd grown an extra head. "SOCCER?!? We wanted to watch the hurling! The national game!"
"Your national game is being sick?" Xander asked in bewilderment.
Doyle got even angrier.
"Ya don't even know what hurling is?!" he bellowed. "Well I'll tell ya! Thirty mad Irishmen in a field, in the lashing rain, with big . . . fists, and red hair, and skin blue with the cold because the feckin' . . . feckin' sun never gets near our . . . skin . . . and what do they do?" Xander shrugged. Doyle turned away and reached under the couch. "They give each of them . . . a big stick!" He turned back to Xander, brandishing something that looked like a hockey stick, except it had a flat round end. "The referee throws in the sliotar – which in ITSELF sounds like a weapon –"
"What the heck's a . . . slitter?" Xander wondered aloud.
Doyle came close and lowered his voice.
"It's a little hard ball, and we wrap it in leather, so that when it does hit . . ." He bent down, reached under a chair with the stick, and fished out what looked like a large white tennis ball. He held it under Xander's nose. " . . . IT TAKES HALF THE HEAD OFF YA!" Xander backed away. Doyle threw the ball in the air, swung at it with the stick, missed, spun around, fell and banged his head on the coffee table. "Jesus Christ, me shaggin' head is destroyed!"
"Well, much as I LOVE cultural exchanges . . ." Xander began, then paused to help Doyle up. Angel lurched forward and Cordelia caught him.
"Hey Cordy," Angel slurred. "You got any Irish in you?"
"No," Cordelia replied.
Angel gave her a lopsided grin.
"You want some?"
Cordelia grimaced. Doyle pushed Angel aside.
"Shag off," he growled. He draped an arm around Cordelia's shoulders and leered at her. "Wouldya like ta be buried with my people?"
"I think it's time I put you both to bed," Cordelia declared.
"Oh please," Angel hiccupped with a leer.
"I'LL deal with Dead boy," Xander declared, taking Angel's arm. He walked Angel into the nearest bedroom while Cordelia made Doyle comfortable on the couch. "Here we go," he said, pushing Angel gently onto the bed.
"Don't I get a kiss goodnight?" Angel slurred.
"Not from me, you don't," Xander replied.
"Oh well," Angel remarked. "I can wait all . . ."
He fell asleep. Xander went out. Cordelia tossed a blanket over a slumbering Doyle.
"You want me to stay the night?" Xander asked. Cordelia stared at him. Xander shrugged. "Y'know . . . just in case one of them tries something . . ."
"I can take care of myself," Cordelia replied. " You go on home."
Willow watched anxiously as Spike lurched around the kitchen. He'd already ransacked the cupboards for ingredients for a "toasted pizza sandwich", which included cheese, tomato ketchup, mushrooms, sweetcorn and onions. He'd stuffed it into Giles' sandwich maker and now he was searching for something in the cupboard near the sink.
"I'm not sure you should be in there ," the redhead called nervously. "You know how tidy Giles likes to keep things . . ."
Spike ignored her. "Here we go," he grunted, pulling out a bag of carrots. He stuck a frying pan on the stove and drunkenly sloshed cooking oil into it, getting most of it on himself. He turned on the stove, tossed a raw carrot into the pan, and began frying it.
"Take me down to the paradise city, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty, won't you pleeease take me ho-ome, yeah yeah . . ."
Willow just stared. Then she noticed the steam.
"Spike – your sandwich –"
Spike left the pan and lurched over to the sandwich maker. He opened it and had to hack through scorched and melted cheese to get the sandwich out. He dumped the snack on a plate, carefully examined the carrot, and then scooped it out of the pan. To Willow's relief, he managed not to get hot oil on himself. He put the carrot next to the sandwich, picked up the plate and staggered drunkenly to the breakfast bar. He sat down on one of the stools and motioned for Willow to join him. Nervously, Willow did so, wondering (like the author) where this was going. Spike attacked the sandwich with the knife . He cut off a piece and offered it to Willow.
"Try it," he hiccupped.
Willow took it gingerly, and took a bite, cursing her polite ways. She grimaced as she chewed, and forced herself to swallow. Spike watched her, awaiting a verdict.
"It's . . . interesting," she declared weakly.
Spike turned away in disgust.
"Bleedin' Yanks, you wouldn't know good grub if it bit off yer face," he growled, taking a bite of the half-raw carrot. Willow grimaced as he demolished the sandwich. She glanced down at the carpet and wondered how easy it was to wash puke out of it. Spike finished the carrot, stumbled off the stool and patted his stomach.
"Feels better," he mumbled. He lurched over to a chair, sat down, pulled out a cigarette and attempted to light it. He managed it on the seventh try , took a long drag and promptly passed out. Willow shook her head, and put the dirty plate into the sink. She turned back just in time to see Spike's smouldering cigarette slip out of his fingers and land on his oil-soaked clothes. Willow gave a yell of panic as Spike started to burn.
"Fire fire fire fire!" she shrieked, then her gaze fell on the fire extinguisher nearby. Willow grabbed it, raced over to Spike, and sprayed him from head to toe with carbon dioxide. The fire was out as fast as it had started. Willow stood, panting, and staring at Spike. He was a bit singed and his face was a little sooty, but apart from that there didn't seem to be any damage.
Spike stirred.
"Is it hot in here?" he mumbled before dozing off again. Willow just stared, utterly stunned.
"I'll get another blanket," she said to herself, before heading upstairs in a kind of daze.
Chapter Three: Sandwiches, Satellites, Shenanigans and Soaked Spike
By Cyberwulf
Rated 12s (PG-13)
Spoilers : None in this part.
Disclaimer : Buffy, Angel and related characters belong to Joss Whedon and various other people who aren't me. "The Boys are Back in Town" belongs to Thin Lizzie. "Ace of Spades" belongs to Motorhead. "Paradise City" belongs to Guns 'n' Roses. Doyle's description of hurling is taken from The Jason Byrne Show.
Author's Notes : Thanks again all you lovely people for your lovely feedback! You gave me a lot of inspiration for this chapter. Once again, I apologise if Doyle is wildly out of character – I don't know him well at all, having only seen half an episode of Angel (it was that one about the red demons who wanted to eat him or something). Just put it down to him being very drunk. For the majority of you who aren't Irish, hurling IS a real game, RTE is Ireland's national broadcasting service, and they don't broadcast on satellite, which makes what Angel and Doyle do in this chapter even more ridiculous. Oh, there's a teensy bit of Buffy bashing at the start of this chapter, because she gets on my nerves sometimes. And speaking of the start . . .
"We should turn him onto his stomach," Willow remarked, gazing at the Watcher, who was now drooling as well as snoring. "In case he chokes."
Buffy glared at her, then stomped off downstairs. Willow ran to the top of the staircase and called after her.
"Hey! Where you going?"
"If you wanna stay here and play nurse then go ahead!" Buffy shouted, in that self-righteous 'I'm the Slayer and I'm better than everyone else and no-one understands that or knows what I have to go through' voice that makes you glad she dies. "I'm going home!"
"But Buffy-"
Willow winced as the door slammed. With a sigh, she went back into Giles' bedroom and proceeded to roll him over. (Calm yourselves, W/G shippers, that's not what I meant ;) And anyway, he's too drunk.)
"THE BOYS ARE BACK IN TOW-OW-OW-OWN, THE BOYS ARE BACK IN TOWN . . ."
Cordelia gritted her teeth and pushed Doyle and Angel into the mansion.
"I swear," she hissed to Xander, "if I never hear another Thin Lizzie record it'll be too soon."
"Shove on the Riverdance album!" Doyle yelled. " Let's have a hooley!"
Angel squinted at his watch. Or rather, at the five little singing clock- faces floating around his wrist.
"Wha-what timeisit?" he slurred.
"A-about two o'clock," Doyle hiccupped. "Two o'clock on a Saturday. . ." He fell over. Angel staggered over to the TV and started pushing buttons frantically.
"'Sup?" Doyle slurred from the floor.
"We're missing the match!" Angel replied.
"Wha' match?"
"The All-Ireland semi-final replay!" Angel yelled. He thumped the TV.
Cordelia and Xander exchanged glances.
"We won' gerri' over here," Doyle burped. "RTE don't broadcast in America . . ."
Angel had another good think.
"Unless . . ."
Willow had just finished making Wesley comfortable when there was a hammering at the door. Cautiously, she opened it. Spike stood there, dripping wet.
"Uh, hi, Spike," she said, wrinkling her nose.
"Relax," Spike hiccupped. "I hosed myself down with the Watcher's . . . hose . . . Look, can I use the toilet?"
"I, I don't know . . ." Willow replied.
"That's okay," Spike sighed. He dropped his voice to a whisper, and murmured, "I thought the answer might be no, so I pissed in the garden."
Willow grimaced.
"Gonna let me in, luv?" Spike asked. "I'm cold and wet and lost. Please?"
The puppy-dog eyes wore down Willow's resolve. "Okay. But you gotta behave."
"Thanks, pet," Spike slurred. He staggered across the threshold and lurched over to Wesley, passed out on the couch. He had a really good look at him. "Bloody hell, Rupert's lookin' well these days . . ."
"Uh, Spike?" Willow said. "That's Wesley."
Spike looked at her, then examined the sleeping form on the couch more closely.
"Fuck, you're right!" He looked up. "And here I was all night, thinking I was seeing double . . ." His stomach gurgled and he burped. Willow took a few steps back. Spike headed for the kitchen. " I need something to settle my stomach . . ."
Cordelia stood outside the mansion and gazed up in disbelief. Xander could hardly control himself.
"Man, I'd kill for a camera right now," he chuckled.
"I wash my hands of both of them," Cordelia declared. "Xander, you're my witness."
They watched as Angel, quietly chanting the words of 'Ace of Spades' to himself, climbed drunkenly up to the roof, and started waving the satellite dish around.
"Nah, still nothin'," Doyle yelled, sticking his head out of the window. He went back inside and fiddled with a few wires. Angel staggered along the middle of the roof, defying several laws of physics, until he reached a chimney.
"How's this?" he bawled.
"No-wait, wait, say nothin'! I'm getting something!" Doyle shouted. "Up another bih'!"
Angel climbed up on the chimney and started twirling around with the satellite dish over his head.
"I can't look!" Cordelia squealed, clamping both hands over her eyes. Xander gazed up in glee and fascination. Angel was balanced precariously on the edge of the chimney, standing on one leg, holding the satellite dish at arm's length.
"Just another bit ta the left!" Doyle shouted. Angel moved, overbalanced, rolled down the roof, fell several feet and landed in a rosebush, followed by the dish.
"No, 's gone," Doyle called. Angel struggled to sit up. Cordelia rushed to help. Miraculously, he was unhurt.
"Luck of a drunk," Xander commented.
"Ah, fuckit," Angel slurred. He let Cordelia half-walk, half-drag him back inside.
"What did you guys wanna watch, anyway?" Xander asked. "Soccer?"
"Soccer?!" Doyle exclaimed, staring at him as if he'd grown an extra head. "SOCCER?!? We wanted to watch the hurling! The national game!"
"Your national game is being sick?" Xander asked in bewilderment.
Doyle got even angrier.
"Ya don't even know what hurling is?!" he bellowed. "Well I'll tell ya! Thirty mad Irishmen in a field, in the lashing rain, with big . . . fists, and red hair, and skin blue with the cold because the feckin' . . . feckin' sun never gets near our . . . skin . . . and what do they do?" Xander shrugged. Doyle turned away and reached under the couch. "They give each of them . . . a big stick!" He turned back to Xander, brandishing something that looked like a hockey stick, except it had a flat round end. "The referee throws in the sliotar – which in ITSELF sounds like a weapon –"
"What the heck's a . . . slitter?" Xander wondered aloud.
Doyle came close and lowered his voice.
"It's a little hard ball, and we wrap it in leather, so that when it does hit . . ." He bent down, reached under a chair with the stick, and fished out what looked like a large white tennis ball. He held it under Xander's nose. " . . . IT TAKES HALF THE HEAD OFF YA!" Xander backed away. Doyle threw the ball in the air, swung at it with the stick, missed, spun around, fell and banged his head on the coffee table. "Jesus Christ, me shaggin' head is destroyed!"
"Well, much as I LOVE cultural exchanges . . ." Xander began, then paused to help Doyle up. Angel lurched forward and Cordelia caught him.
"Hey Cordy," Angel slurred. "You got any Irish in you?"
"No," Cordelia replied.
Angel gave her a lopsided grin.
"You want some?"
Cordelia grimaced. Doyle pushed Angel aside.
"Shag off," he growled. He draped an arm around Cordelia's shoulders and leered at her. "Wouldya like ta be buried with my people?"
"I think it's time I put you both to bed," Cordelia declared.
"Oh please," Angel hiccupped with a leer.
"I'LL deal with Dead boy," Xander declared, taking Angel's arm. He walked Angel into the nearest bedroom while Cordelia made Doyle comfortable on the couch. "Here we go," he said, pushing Angel gently onto the bed.
"Don't I get a kiss goodnight?" Angel slurred.
"Not from me, you don't," Xander replied.
"Oh well," Angel remarked. "I can wait all . . ."
He fell asleep. Xander went out. Cordelia tossed a blanket over a slumbering Doyle.
"You want me to stay the night?" Xander asked. Cordelia stared at him. Xander shrugged. "Y'know . . . just in case one of them tries something . . ."
"I can take care of myself," Cordelia replied. " You go on home."
Willow watched anxiously as Spike lurched around the kitchen. He'd already ransacked the cupboards for ingredients for a "toasted pizza sandwich", which included cheese, tomato ketchup, mushrooms, sweetcorn and onions. He'd stuffed it into Giles' sandwich maker and now he was searching for something in the cupboard near the sink.
"I'm not sure you should be in there ," the redhead called nervously. "You know how tidy Giles likes to keep things . . ."
Spike ignored her. "Here we go," he grunted, pulling out a bag of carrots. He stuck a frying pan on the stove and drunkenly sloshed cooking oil into it, getting most of it on himself. He turned on the stove, tossed a raw carrot into the pan, and began frying it.
"Take me down to the paradise city, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty, won't you pleeease take me ho-ome, yeah yeah . . ."
Willow just stared. Then she noticed the steam.
"Spike – your sandwich –"
Spike left the pan and lurched over to the sandwich maker. He opened it and had to hack through scorched and melted cheese to get the sandwich out. He dumped the snack on a plate, carefully examined the carrot, and then scooped it out of the pan. To Willow's relief, he managed not to get hot oil on himself. He put the carrot next to the sandwich, picked up the plate and staggered drunkenly to the breakfast bar. He sat down on one of the stools and motioned for Willow to join him. Nervously, Willow did so, wondering (like the author) where this was going. Spike attacked the sandwich with the knife . He cut off a piece and offered it to Willow.
"Try it," he hiccupped.
Willow took it gingerly, and took a bite, cursing her polite ways. She grimaced as she chewed, and forced herself to swallow. Spike watched her, awaiting a verdict.
"It's . . . interesting," she declared weakly.
Spike turned away in disgust.
"Bleedin' Yanks, you wouldn't know good grub if it bit off yer face," he growled, taking a bite of the half-raw carrot. Willow grimaced as he demolished the sandwich. She glanced down at the carpet and wondered how easy it was to wash puke out of it. Spike finished the carrot, stumbled off the stool and patted his stomach.
"Feels better," he mumbled. He lurched over to a chair, sat down, pulled out a cigarette and attempted to light it. He managed it on the seventh try , took a long drag and promptly passed out. Willow shook her head, and put the dirty plate into the sink. She turned back just in time to see Spike's smouldering cigarette slip out of his fingers and land on his oil-soaked clothes. Willow gave a yell of panic as Spike started to burn.
"Fire fire fire fire!" she shrieked, then her gaze fell on the fire extinguisher nearby. Willow grabbed it, raced over to Spike, and sprayed him from head to toe with carbon dioxide. The fire was out as fast as it had started. Willow stood, panting, and staring at Spike. He was a bit singed and his face was a little sooty, but apart from that there didn't seem to be any damage.
Spike stirred.
"Is it hot in here?" he mumbled before dozing off again. Willow just stared, utterly stunned.
"I'll get another blanket," she said to herself, before heading upstairs in a kind of daze.
