Y'Goin' for a Pint ?

Chapter Four: Never Again

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 lyrics to "I'm Shady" belong to Eminem. "Something for the Weekend" belongs to The Divine Comedy. The "bag of yeast" thing belongs to my sister, and I'm not at liberty to divulge what it means. Suffice to say it refers to someone she doesn't like very much.

Author's Notes : Well, this is the final chapter, and thanks to everyone who reviewed me. Without your encouragement, I'd never have gotten this far. To answer some of your comments – discreet W/S?? Where? Where?? That was never my intention! And yes, on rereading the whole thing, Doyle DOES say "shaggin'" a bit too often, but we DO use it quite a lot in Ireland – just usually as an adjective rather than a verb, as the English do. So I've given him some different curses in this part. Well, that's enough rambling – let's get on with it!

The day dawned, bright and sunny. Baby birds chirped in their nests, flowers opened and exposed their delicate petals to the light. Sunnydale was awakening from its slumber, its citizens bright-eyed and bushy-tailed . . .

"Ugghh . . ."

Spike stirred drowsily. He opened his eyes a crack, groaning at the pain in his head. He ran a hand under his blanket and over his oil-soaked clothes, and brought his fingers to his face in an attempt to discover what the substance was. He squinted around the dimly lit room in puzzlement. "Eh?"

Angel massaged his forehead as he sat at the table.

"What's that awful noise?" he growled.

Cordelia glanced over from the counter, where she was mixing up some blood and black, black coffee for him.

"What noise?" she asked.

"That loud, irritating buzzing noise," Angel replied.

Cordelia's gaze fell on the glass next to Angel. "That would be the aspirin dissolving." She set the mug of blood and coffee down on the table in front of him.

"Bless you, Cordelia," the vampire moaned.

"Morning, everyone!" Xander called cheerfully as he came in the front door. "Isn't it a terrific morning?" He came up to Angel. "Gee, I hope no-one has a" (he leaned very close) "HANGOVER!"

Angel winced, and glared at him. "Don't push me, boy."

Doyle dragged himself into the kitchen. He stared sleepily at Xander, didn't recognise him, and slid into a chair.

"And how are we this morning?" Xander asked chirpily.

Angel glared at him.

"You're loving this, aren't you?" he growled.

"Ants," Doyle moaned.

"What?" Cordelia asked from the stove.

"Ants," Doyle repeated. "The fuckin', bastardin' ants in the garden. I can hear them walkin'." He groaned and held his head. "I thought the visions were bad . . ." He turned to Xander. "Don't ever go drinkin', so you won't?"

Cordelia scraped something out of the frying pan and onto a plate, which she put down on the table.

"Who wants a nice, big, greasy fried egg?" she asked.

Doyle turned pale, clamped a hand over his mouth, and fled for the bathroom. Angel pushed his blood and coffee away in disgust, stood up and made his way shakily back to his bedroom. Cordelia shrugged.

"Looks like it's all yours, Xander," she remarked innocently.

Willow cautiously made her way to Giles' apartment. She hoped everyone was okay. She'd tried to talk to Buffy about the previous night, but the Slayer was still rightly pissed off at everyone involved. As she approached the door she heard some horrible sounds, and somebody shouting. She let herself in.

"Will you stop making that REVOLTING noise, Spike?" Wesley shouted from the couch. The blonde vampire was being violently and copiously sick in the kitchen sink. All the blinds were drawn and the apartment was in semi- darkness. Wesley continued. "You know I'm ill! You're only trying to make me feel worse!"

Spike finished retching, and turned his bloodshot eyes on Wesley.

"Listen, no-one feels any worse than me, mate," he groaned. His stomach rumbled. "Shut up, you bastard," he warned it.

"Hi, guys," Willow said nervously. "I just dropped by to see how you were . . ."

Spike gave her a nasty glare.

"How do you bloody think we are ?" he snarled. He put a hand on his poor abused tummy. "Fuckin' hell, what did I EAT? No, on second thoughts, don't tell me."

"I've made my headache worse," Wesley moaned, holding his head.

"Can-can I do anything for you guys?" Willow asked.

"Yes," Spike replied. "Kill those birds." Willow backed away a little as Spike got a mad look on his face. "Lucky toothless bastards . . ."

Rupert Giles came to with a splitting headache, a stomach like a washing machine, and a vague memory of being attacked by an old bag of yeast with a teapot for a head. He moaned and reached for a blanket.

"How're you doing?" Willow asked quietly.

"I need three buckets, a barrel and a bathtub," Giles replied miserably. Willow came and sat on the bed next to him. "Who's making all that racket downstairs?"

"Spike and Wesley," Willow answered. "They're arguing over who's got the worst hangover." They both grimaced as the sound of someone being puked on followed by a girlish scream floated up from the floor below.

"This is the worst I've felt in about twenty years," Giles groaned. "I have almost no memory of what happened last night . . ." He trailed off and thought for a minute. "I do have this feeling that I did something highly embarrassing . . ." He furrowed his brow. "If I could just remember –"

"Um . . ."

"You know, don't you?" Giles said suddenly. "Willow, please, you have to tell me. What did we do?"

"Well . . ." Willow shifted awkwardly. "I'd stay away from Buffy if I were you."

"Why?"

"Um . . ." Willow squirmed. "You guys . . . kinda got arrested on national TV . . . and you . . . kinda blurted out something you shouldn't have . . ."

"What –"

Giles broke off suddenly as the fog lifted and the events of the previous night hit him like a sledgehammer. He put his head under the pillow and cringed for England.

***

It was Sunday evening. Giles was sitting in an armchair with a copy of "Lord of the Rings" but had long since given up trying to read. Buffy still wasn't speaking to him, and rumour had it that Xander had taped the episode of "Sunnydale Cops" in question and was planning to blackmail either Angel or Spike – possibly both. Wesley refused to leave Giles' house until he had perfected his paper bag. Apparently the eyeholes needed to be bigger. He sighed, and for the umpteenth time, swore he'd never do something like that again.

Angel pulled up outside the apartment and blew the horn. Doyle punched a few buttons on his cell phone.

"Are yiz comin' out?" he asked. "All the lads are here, it'll be a mad night!"

Angel grabbed the phone.

"Spike's doing his Slim Shady impression!" he said. "And I know where there's a party we can crash!"

Spike wrestled the phone off his sire.

"Hey Rupert!" he yelled. "We picked up this guy Ethan, says he's a mate of yours." He adjusted his white baseball cap and slipped into Eminem mode. "He's got mushrooms, he's got acid, he's got caps 'n' aspirin tablets . . ."

The back doors of the car opened and Wesley and Giles jumped in.

"Deadly jackets," Doyle remarked.

"Real leather," Wesley replied proudly.

"Ripper," Ethan said.

"Ethan!"

The pair of them did a complicated quasi-Masonic handshake.

"Come on!" Spike shouted at Angel. "Step on the gas, y'great poof, and let's go!"

Angel gunned the engine and the car took off. Doyle shoved a Divine Comedy album into the cassette player and sang along loudly.

"He went down to the woodshed, the beam came down upon his head, gagged and bound and left for dead, when he woke, she was gone, with his car and all of his money!"

The End