Fic: The Way It Is Today (Doyle/Oz, PG-13)

[allyndra]

Title: The Way It Is Today
Author: Allyndra
Pairing: Doyle/Oz
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own Whedon-verse DVDs, comics, action figures, and jewelry, but sadly, no boys.
Summary: Doyle's used to ending up drunk in the street, but he's not so used to being picked up again.

Notes: For mireille719 in the Doyle round of maleslashminis. She requested Cordelia, Oz's guitar, and a revelation, with *absolutely* no reference to the "my little Bamm-Bamm" comment from "In the Dark" (you can refer to that scene Cordelia describes, but not the nickname) or massive angst. I fudged the Cordelia request, but I hope she'll enjoy it anyway.



There had been a time when the rough scrape of pavement under his cheek had been unfamiliar, when the sour bite of too much whisky had been reserved for rare, celebratory overindulgence. Doyle snorted against the concrete at his straight-and-narrow youth. Those days were long past.

Strong hands on his shoulders jarred Doyle back to the present, and he tensed, mentally running through a list of all the people (and things) he owed money, and which of them was most likely to frequent the bars at this end of town. He let himself be rolled over, struggling to loosen his muscles enough that whoever it was would believe him unconscious. He waited for a kick or a blow or a demand of money.

And waited.

Doyle cracked one eye open. A tatty concert t-shirt, pale skin, shadowed eyes, a shock of reddish hair. Huffing out a sigh, Doyle opened his eyes all the way and glared at Oz, who was sitting back on his haunches watching him.

“You couldn’t be troubled to tell me it was you?” he grumbled, rolling his head a bit to find a more comfortable patch of pavement to lay it on.

“Hey, Doyle. It’s me, Oz,” Oz said. Doyle wished he could manage to sound that deadpan. He’d be able to lie to the pope if he had Oz’s voice. “Better?”

Doyle rolled his eyes, pleasantly surprised when the world didn’t twist around him when he did. “Much, thanks,” he said. “Help us up?”

Oz stood and held out his hand, and Doyle let him take most of his weight as punishment for letting Doyle think he’d been nabbed by someone he owed money to.

“So,” Oz said once they were both on their feet. “This ‘getting so drunk you misquote literature and fall down in the street’ thing. Not just part of yesterday’s celebration?”

“I’ve not misquoted literature a single time tonight,” Doyle told him. “And I didn’t fall down in the street. Bloke from the bar thought it was time for me to leave and chucked me out. Getting up just didn’t seem all that important.” He shrugged.

Oz raised an eyebrow at him and stayed silent. They stood there in the darkness between patches of streetlight, and Doyle wondered if Oz felt as awkward about it as he did. He looked at Ox’s placid face and decided it was unlikely.

“Right,” Doyle said. He brushed his hands against his trousers, barely wobbling as he rid his clothes of the worst of the dirt clinging to them. “I’d best be off, then.” He started to turn, to head back to his, when he realized that there was a better than good chance that one of the creditors he’d mistaken Oz for would be waiting at his flat to take back his pound of flesh. And for a few of those fellows, that wasn’t a metaphor.

“Need a ride?” Oz asked, and Doyle realized he’d been watching as Doyle shifted from foot to foot, debating the wisdom of going home.

Doyle gave a tense, false laugh. “You know, I think I’ll just hang about,” he said. “Night’s still young.”

Oz just looked at him, and Doyle realized that the deadpan voice wasn’t the height of Oz’s powers. If he could conjure that quiet, expectant look, he wouldn’t have to lie to the pope. He could just sit back and wait while the pope scrambled to confess to him.

“Haven’t got anywhere to go at the moment,” Doyle said, his lips twisting bitterly not at the fact, but at the admission. Oz nodded silently. He tipped his head back toward the alley behind them.

“I’ve got a van,” he said, and the words were an offer and an absolution all in one. Maybe the pope wouldn’t mind confessing.

“All right.” Doyle followed Oz to the van and climbed in the back when Oz held the door open for him. If there’d been a time when lying on the filthy pavement had been unknown, there’d been a time, too, when slumping in a carpeted van that smelled of patchouli and take-away had been completely familiar. He’d not done this since school, but he let it wash over him, making him feel suddenly more comfortable with this odd, pale boy who delivered treasure and rescued vampires without blinking an eye.

Doyle sprawled a bit. The van was the sort of place that encouraged sprawling. He looked around with interest, taking in the duffle bag tucked behind the driver’s seat and the enormous, nearly empty packet of beef jerky lying by the door. He nodded at the guitar case sitting in the seat like a passenger.

“You said you play, right?” Doyle’s memory of the night before had more holes than last year's socks, but he was certain he remembered a conversation about music. Oz had said he was in a band. Something about Australians. “Play me a tune?” he asked. “It’d pass the time.”

Oz crawled to the front and fetched back the guitar case, drawing the instrument out like an old friend, deserving of a warm smile but not needing undue gentleness.

Oz strummed callused fingers over the strings. “Any requests?” he asked without looking up.

“I’m rude enough to take your hospitality and ask you to play for me,” Doyle replied. “I’m not so rude as to dictate what.”

Oz nodded, more to himself than to Doyle, and began to play. It wasn’t masterful, but it was good; solid, skilled music rippled out from the guitar and settled around Doyle like a blanket. He slipped under it, letting it cradle and comfort him until he was two steps from sleep. He didn’t know he was going to speak until the words were already out of his mouth.

“Sometimes I really hate the bugger.” It hung in the air between them, supported by the music rather than hidden by it. Oz didn’t say anything, and Doyle opened his eyes to see his reaction. Oz was watching him with that quiet, expectant look, and Doyle flushed under the weight of it.

Oz glanced down at his fingering and then back up at Doyle. “Because he’s a vampire?” Oz asked. His voice wasn’t deep or loud, but Doyle felt it nonetheless, like a pressure against his chest.

“Because he chose this,” Doyle said. “He had a choice, he had salvation, and he chose to keep struggling.” He hadn’t realized how bitter he was until he heard the words, twisting and discordant.

“He didn’t ask for a soul,” Oz pointed out mildly.

“Oh, the soul.” Doyle rolled his eyes. “Millions of people with souls do dreadful things to one another and never go looking for redemption. You’ve got a soul; do you run about rescuing damsels and fighting the powers of darkness?” Oz didn’t answer, but Doyle knew. He sighed. “You do,” he accused. His voice sounded so defeated, it was hardly his own.

“I’ve been known to help out with the darkness-fighting,” Oz agreed softly. “You do, too.”

“I,” Doyle said viciously, “Have been gifted with horrible, searing visions of pain and violence and ...” He honestly didn’t have words for the horrors that branded themselves into his head. “I didn’t choose this.” He shut his eyes firmly and sank back against the carpeting.

“Maybe you did.” Oz’s voice seemed suddenly loud, and Doyle realized he’d stopped playing. “Anyone could have these visions. There are people out there praying for a gift like that. But they came to you. Maybe there’s something in you that wanted to be part of the fight.”

Doyle sneered. Give him an honest brawl, and he’d step up every time, but he’d never asked for this. Never signed on to save the world.

“There's no part of me that’s that good,” he said. He meant it as a truthful analysis, not self-pity, but when he opened his eyes, he found Oz leaning over him, looking down with solemn concern.

“There are a lot of parts of you that good,” Oz told him. And his voice was earnest and not deadpan at all. Doyle didn’t think he could be blamed for kissing him.

Oz’s lips were soft and his body was firm, and he was warm all over. Doyle pulled him down, fitting Oz between his legs and against his chest, licking and nipping at his mouth until Oz responded. His lips parted for Doyle, and his body yielded against him, and it was sweet and sin all at once. Oz’s hands gripped Doyle’s arms and pulled him over with surprising strength, so that Doyle was on top, straddling Oz and pressing him into the carpet.

It was perfect, this moment. The taste of Oz driving whiskey from his mouth, the feel of him driving sorrow and anger from his heart. It was more than absolution, it was acceptance.

Oz’s mouth was wet and hot, gasping into his as Doyle rubbed his whole body against him. His hands were still clutching at Doyle’s arms, like they were all that was keeping him afloat, and Doyle couldn’t help the surge of pride that sent through him, that he could make a bloke like Oz pant and grab and lose control.

Doyle’s hands ached to touch, to feel another person’s pleasure instead of pain. He slipped a hand under Oz’s t-shirt, shoving the worn cotton out of the way and stroking the smooth, bare skin underneath. The muscles in Oz’s stomach shuddered at his touch, and Doyle grinned against his mouth. He reached for Oz’s zipper with his other hand and banged it against the discarded guitar. The noise it made jarred Doyle, and he lifted his head, startled. When he looked back down, Oz’s face was flushed. His lips were reddened and his eyes were dark with desire.

And full of sad determination.

Doyle didn’t wait for him to speak. He rolled off of Oz and pressed back against the side of the van, letting the metal cool him. “You’ve got a girlfriend, haven’t you?” Doyle asked. His voice was rough, but not angry.

Oz nodded, staring up at the roof of the van and breathing hard. “I didn’t mean to do that,” he said.

Doyle watched Oz lying there, hard in his jeans, with his shirt still rucked up over his white belly. He licked his lips and looked away. “It’s not your fault,” Doyle said. “I’m irresistible, is all.”

When he glanced back at Oz, he was smiling. It was a soft, rueful grin. “You kinda are,” he said. Oz pulled himself up, straightening his clothes and packing his guitar away. “Have you thought of anywhere to go? I can still give you a lift.”

Doyle looked out the windscreen and saw that the sky was starting to tinge with pink. “Take me back to the office, yeah?” Angel would be getting to bed, and Doyle would have the place to himself for a bit.

Oz drove carefully, focusing his attention on traffic, so Doyle had plenty of time to look at him. His hands were clever and strong on the wheel, and his eyes were wise, but what Doyle noticed in the light of dawn was that he was young. So very young.

When they pulled up in front of the office, Doyle leaned over and kissed him chastely on the cheek. “Thanks,” he said. “If you ever split with your bird or outgrow this morality, give me a call.”

Oz’s smile was a denial, but he said, “I’ll do that.” Doyle climbed down from the van and didn’t watch as Oz drove away.

The office was dark and quiet, but it was full of purpose, full of Cordelia’s perfume and Angel’s books. Doyle sat down and let the feeling of home surround him. When he opened his eyes, the room was bright and a pair of lovely eyes was glaring at him.

“Did you get so drunk last night you couldn’t make it home?” Cordelia demanded.

Doyle’s lips stretched into a grin. “Something like that.”

“Well, you might want to find the wagon and climb up on it,” she said. “Because I, for one, am tired of smelling you after a night out drinking. You could have a little consideration for those of us who have to spend time with you.” She added an eyebrow lift to her glare, and Doyle ducked his head so she wouldn’t see him smiling.

There had been a time when this would have seemed like hell, being berated by a teenager and ordered about by a demon. Despite his doubts and his fears, those days were past.

Doyle was glad.