SPN/AtS: Luck o' the Irish, Doyle + Patrick, PG
Finally! For spastic_visions:
Title: Luck o' the Irish
Author: nevcolleil
Rating: PG
Fandom(s) and Character(s): Supernatural/Angel; Patrick (from the episode The Curious Case of Dean Winchester) + Doyle
Summary: Doyle runs into a familiar face in a bar. spastic_visions: I tried writing just Doyle for you, dear, but somehow it wouldn't happen. I hope this is okay!
It’s been a while - a good ten years, maybe. But it’s not like Doyle’s gonna forget such a familiar face. Least of all one that never ages.
He watched three old fogeys strike out with the hot blond perpetually parked at the bar and didn’t catch on. He bumped into a couple of snot-nosed kids grinning like loons as they came out of the back room and he stumbled towards the john. Doyle paid no attention to their too-loose clothing - that’s in with the kids these days, yeah? Sagging pants; undies on display.
He was peeing, forehead pressed against the probably none-too-hygienic stucco wall (who can care after a lively few rounds with Jack Daniels?), and spotted a toothpick on the floor in a puddle beneath the leaky sink.
Gears rumbled to life in his alcohol-rusted brain and Doyle sputtered a bit. “Well I’ll be-”
A little slice of home. Right here in LA. What luck.
He finished up, washed his hands, and headed for that back door. Hot Blonde was escorting a middle-aged man with a beer gut the size of carry-on luggage in the same direction, and she froze when their paths crossed. They were right in front of the door and Doyle’s hand landed on the knob first, but he didn’t twist it with her watching. Her eyes were unblinking and her smile had gone tight. She looked maybe twenty-five, twenty years old; California tan, legs up to her ears. Doyle would bet his ass she didn’t get that ages-old locket hanging around her neck bequeathed to her by some dead granny.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice sweet as honey. “You must not have seen the sign. If you’ll just wait-”
“You’re noone’s employee, sweetheart,” Doyle said back, interrupting her. He didn’t miss her reaction to his accent. He reached up and knocked on the door, directly above the frayed ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’ sign that - yes - he had seen, clear and easy. “But don’t worry. Patrick’ll wanna be seeing me.”
He turned his back on her then (he’s a bit cocky these days - reckless perhaps. What’s life if you don’t live it, yeah? And what’s a witch gonna do to a half-demon?) ‘Famous last words,’ Doyle thought and swung the door open.
Patrick’s sitting at his card table. He looks good - nice suit; big, glitzy ring on one pinky. He’s doing that whole… dimmed-lights, no-windows, cigar-burning-in-its-ashtray gloomy thing. Ambiance is such a big part of his game.
He’s twirling a poker chip between his fingers and chewing another damned toothpick. It may as well be ten years ago, out behind a pub in the hometown; Doyle skinny and snot-nosed himself, bumming cigarettes off the local heavy. (Okay - so he was bit of a cocky bastard even then.)
Of course, Patrick recognizes Doyle right away. Immortals. Ironically, they have the best memories.
“Francis!” Patrick says, grinning. “Well lookee who’s found himself at my table tonight. Come to try your luck at some cards, Fran?”
“Pat,” Doyle replies, cheerfully enough, but he grimaces at the use of his middle name. He’d almost forgotten himself how everyone used to call him that. He’d tried, anyway. “No thanks. I’d like to hold on to most of my life force, if it’s all the same to you.”
Patrick’s grin dims not a bit. Doyle pulls out a chair and turns it, straddles it backwards. All cool and casual, yeah? Old buddies catching up on the times. Everybody’s your buddy at a card table until they’re not.
“Besides. Did’n I hear your tricks don’t work on Brachens?” Doyle says, watching Patrick closely.
Patrick’s face goes a bit stiff, but he doesn’t stop grinning. “Ah,” he says. “So you’ve found out, have you?”
“I wondered if you knew.”
“Sorry, lad. Wasn’t my place to tell you.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Patrick is the first supernatural being Doyle ever met, so far as he knows. He thinks it might have helped, if the guy had had more of a ‘birds of a flock’ way of thinking.
Then again, could finding out a few years earlier have possibly made being less than fully human any easier? And they aren’t really ‘of a feather’, now are they? A Brachen and a warlock.
“Yeah, well. As nice as it is, this catching up… I’m hear to tell you. You’d best keep a low profile in Los Angeles. There’s a vampire works this area. Protects the humans. Name’s Angel. He wouldn’t take too kindly if he knew what kind of games you like playing.”
Cool. And casual. Doyle’s about to shit his pants. In our minds, we’re always the skinny, snot-nosed kid we used to be, aren’t we? When we come up face-to-face with someone who knew us when we were. Doyle’s got his best poker face on. It’s probably no match for Patrick’s, but Patrick shrugs, nods.
Doyle stands up. A braver man would have hung around a bit, chit-chatted a while. A real badass might have asked Patrick to deal a hand.
Doyle nods and walks to the door. Patrick watches him.
“Hey? Francis?”
Doyle stops. He’s mostly certain he doesn’t look terrified when he turns back to face Pat. “Yeah?”
“This Angel… You’re a friend of his, aren’t you?”
Doyle’s pulse picks up for half a beat.
“Ah, don’t worry,” Patrick says. “’m not interested in vampires. They’ve got no coin for sitting at my table. Immortal, you know.”
“Yeah,” Doyle says. “He’s a friend.”
“You tell him I said ‘hello’, alright?” Doyle thinks about it. He can’t see how Patrick’s knowing Angel could be a bad thing, exactly - but then again, he can’t see how it could be a good thing either. Patrick’s not such a bad guy, for his kind; he’s never cheated a man at his table, so far as Doyle’s heard. But Doyle would rather keep acquaintances who can’t make his heart explode in his chest when they’re angry, just the same.
Doyle nods and makes his way first out of the backroom and then out of the bar.
He’ll relay Patrick’s message in a few days, give the guy time to clear out. Just in case Angel asks questions and Doyle’s answers lead him to thinking about giving Pat a call. Witchy tricks don’t always top fangs and brawn, and besides- It’s the least Doyle can do for a fellow Irishman.
[ end. ]
Title: Luck o' the Irish
Author: nevcolleil
Rating: PG
Fandom(s) and Character(s): Supernatural/Angel; Patrick (from the episode The Curious Case of Dean Winchester) + Doyle
Summary: Doyle runs into a familiar face in a bar. spastic_visions: I tried writing just Doyle for you, dear, but somehow it wouldn't happen. I hope this is okay!
It’s been a while - a good ten years, maybe. But it’s not like Doyle’s gonna forget such a familiar face. Least of all one that never ages.
He watched three old fogeys strike out with the hot blond perpetually parked at the bar and didn’t catch on. He bumped into a couple of snot-nosed kids grinning like loons as they came out of the back room and he stumbled towards the john. Doyle paid no attention to their too-loose clothing - that’s in with the kids these days, yeah? Sagging pants; undies on display.
He was peeing, forehead pressed against the probably none-too-hygienic stucco wall (who can care after a lively few rounds with Jack Daniels?), and spotted a toothpick on the floor in a puddle beneath the leaky sink.
Gears rumbled to life in his alcohol-rusted brain and Doyle sputtered a bit. “Well I’ll be-”
A little slice of home. Right here in LA. What luck.
He finished up, washed his hands, and headed for that back door. Hot Blonde was escorting a middle-aged man with a beer gut the size of carry-on luggage in the same direction, and she froze when their paths crossed. They were right in front of the door and Doyle’s hand landed on the knob first, but he didn’t twist it with her watching. Her eyes were unblinking and her smile had gone tight. She looked maybe twenty-five, twenty years old; California tan, legs up to her ears. Doyle would bet his ass she didn’t get that ages-old locket hanging around her neck bequeathed to her by some dead granny.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice sweet as honey. “You must not have seen the sign. If you’ll just wait-”
“You’re noone’s employee, sweetheart,” Doyle said back, interrupting her. He didn’t miss her reaction to his accent. He reached up and knocked on the door, directly above the frayed ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’ sign that - yes - he had seen, clear and easy. “But don’t worry. Patrick’ll wanna be seeing me.”
He turned his back on her then (he’s a bit cocky these days - reckless perhaps. What’s life if you don’t live it, yeah? And what’s a witch gonna do to a half-demon?) ‘Famous last words,’ Doyle thought and swung the door open.
Patrick’s sitting at his card table. He looks good - nice suit; big, glitzy ring on one pinky. He’s doing that whole… dimmed-lights, no-windows, cigar-burning-in-its-ashtray gloomy thing. Ambiance is such a big part of his game.
He’s twirling a poker chip between his fingers and chewing another damned toothpick. It may as well be ten years ago, out behind a pub in the hometown; Doyle skinny and snot-nosed himself, bumming cigarettes off the local heavy. (Okay - so he was bit of a cocky bastard even then.)
Of course, Patrick recognizes Doyle right away. Immortals. Ironically, they have the best memories.
“Francis!” Patrick says, grinning. “Well lookee who’s found himself at my table tonight. Come to try your luck at some cards, Fran?”
“Pat,” Doyle replies, cheerfully enough, but he grimaces at the use of his middle name. He’d almost forgotten himself how everyone used to call him that. He’d tried, anyway. “No thanks. I’d like to hold on to most of my life force, if it’s all the same to you.”
Patrick’s grin dims not a bit. Doyle pulls out a chair and turns it, straddles it backwards. All cool and casual, yeah? Old buddies catching up on the times. Everybody’s your buddy at a card table until they’re not.
“Besides. Did’n I hear your tricks don’t work on Brachens?” Doyle says, watching Patrick closely.
Patrick’s face goes a bit stiff, but he doesn’t stop grinning. “Ah,” he says. “So you’ve found out, have you?”
“I wondered if you knew.”
“Sorry, lad. Wasn’t my place to tell you.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Patrick is the first supernatural being Doyle ever met, so far as he knows. He thinks it might have helped, if the guy had had more of a ‘birds of a flock’ way of thinking.
Then again, could finding out a few years earlier have possibly made being less than fully human any easier? And they aren’t really ‘of a feather’, now are they? A Brachen and a warlock.
“Yeah, well. As nice as it is, this catching up… I’m hear to tell you. You’d best keep a low profile in Los Angeles. There’s a vampire works this area. Protects the humans. Name’s Angel. He wouldn’t take too kindly if he knew what kind of games you like playing.”
Cool. And casual. Doyle’s about to shit his pants. In our minds, we’re always the skinny, snot-nosed kid we used to be, aren’t we? When we come up face-to-face with someone who knew us when we were. Doyle’s got his best poker face on. It’s probably no match for Patrick’s, but Patrick shrugs, nods.
Doyle stands up. A braver man would have hung around a bit, chit-chatted a while. A real badass might have asked Patrick to deal a hand.
Doyle nods and walks to the door. Patrick watches him.
“Hey? Francis?”
Doyle stops. He’s mostly certain he doesn’t look terrified when he turns back to face Pat. “Yeah?”
“This Angel… You’re a friend of his, aren’t you?”
Doyle’s pulse picks up for half a beat.
“Ah, don’t worry,” Patrick says. “’m not interested in vampires. They’ve got no coin for sitting at my table. Immortal, you know.”
“Yeah,” Doyle says. “He’s a friend.”
“You tell him I said ‘hello’, alright?” Doyle thinks about it. He can’t see how Patrick’s knowing Angel could be a bad thing, exactly - but then again, he can’t see how it could be a good thing either. Patrick’s not such a bad guy, for his kind; he’s never cheated a man at his table, so far as Doyle’s heard. But Doyle would rather keep acquaintances who can’t make his heart explode in his chest when they’re angry, just the same.
Doyle nods and makes his way first out of the backroom and then out of the bar.
He’ll relay Patrick’s message in a few days, give the guy time to clear out. Just in case Angel asks questions and Doyle’s answers lead him to thinking about giving Pat a call. Witchy tricks don’t always top fangs and brawn, and besides- It’s the least Doyle can do for a fellow Irishman.
[ end. ]