Magui
Scooby
New Year's Slash
Pairing: Angel/Doyle
Rating: NC-17, graphic m/m sex.
Spoilers: Angel: The Series in general; no specific plot
points given away. This occurs after Bachelor Party and
well before Heroe, obviously.
Summary: It's New Year's Eve of the new millennium, and the
staff of Angel Investigations has a few drinks and some fun.
Disclaimer: Nothing of "Angel" belongs to me. It all belongs to Joss Whedon , Mutant Enemy , Kuzui Productions , Fox and the WB
Notes: This was, as will be clear, intended to hit the
lists on New Year's Day 2000, but I was cursed with a soul with chronic writer's block. Please to forgive. Also, I realize I'm playing fast and loose with the canon terms of Angel's Curse here, but if he can't have sex with anybody without losing his soul, we can't have slash fic, and that's just not acceptable.
Angel moved around his spacious apartment restlessly,
cleaning a little, rearranging books, trying to distract
himself from his own bleak thoughts. It was nine-thirty on
New Year's Eve. Angel hated holidays, when people tended to
gather and party. Those nights left him feeling his status
as an outsider acutely. Going out to revel alone had no
appeal, and he knew that even if he'd been on the streets
tonight, he would have done nothing but hunt for bad guys
to dispatch. He dropped into his favorite leather chair.
"You need to loosen up some," he muttered to himself,
mocking Cordelia's words to him earlier that day. "Right. I
wouldn't know how."
He heard noises outside his door, familiar voices. He
sighed and stood up. Cordelia and Doyle, no doubt come to
dutifully wish him Happys and escape him quickly once the
niceties were done, to go party with the rest of the human
race. He snarled a little and yanked the door open before
his visitors could knock.
His friends waved bottles at him. "Time to party,
m'friend!" exclaimed Doyle, looking a bit shnookered
already. "Ringin' in the new year an' all that!"
"Yeah," chimed in Cordelia, her eyes bright, "Happy Auld
Lang Whatever!"
He stared. "Auld Lang Syne," he said, the first thing that
came to mind.
"Yeah, that. Well, let us in!" ordered Cordy cheerfully,
and slipped past him. "Wow, Angel, great decorations!"
"What?" Angel said blankly. "I didn't put up any - oh."
Doyle ducked in under his arm, still holding the door open.
"Don't you have a television in here someplace? We got to
watch Dick Clark an' all. You know, I really think that man
must be undead. Do you know he's seventy years old?"
"Face-lifts," said Cordelia, from the kitchen. "Lots of
face-lifts. The man is, like, a god to me. He gives me
hope. Angel, do you have champagne glasses? And ice?"
"Ah, in the cabinet - of course I have ice! What are you
two doing?"
"You really don't have a bleedin' television, do ya?" said
Doyle, prowling, checking every nook that might conceal a
television, even a tiny one. "How are we gonna know when
the New Year comes in if we can't watch the big ball fall
down?"
"No, I don't. Look, when the big hand and the little hand
are both on twelve and the clock goes bong-bong, it's
midnight, okay?"
"Oh, listen, Doyle, Angel made a funny!"
"Amazin'. Wonder what happens when we get him drunk?" the
Irishman pondered, walking behind Angel, close enough that
Angel could feel his body heat. Which wasn't really all
that close, but still it put him off-guard. Angel was never
entirely sure what to do with people who put him off-guard
but weren't in the killing-and-eating category. He backed
up to the dividing wall, trying to keep both his visitors
in sight, as Cordelia skillfully opened champagne and Doyle
circled the living room like a vulture waiting for dinner.
"Can vampires even get drunk?" Doyle continued.
"Let's find out!" Cordy said brightly, pouring bubbly.
"Why do you want me drunk?" Angel asked nervously.
Doyle stopped in front of him - very close - Doyle had a
tendency to stand very close to him, Angel realized with an
irrational prickle of apprehension - and looked up at him
with huge innocent eyes and spread his hands wide. "It's
New Year's, ya big doof! You're supposed ta get drunk! It's
tradition!"
"And we're here to ensure that you keep that tradition,"
Cordelia stated firmly.
"We'll help, o'course," added Doyle. "Provide an example
and that sort o' thing."
"Look, don't you two want to, to party with, uh, your
friends or something?" Angel asked, uncomfortably.
Cordelia put a glass of cool sparkling champagne in his
hand. "Yes, we do," she said firmly, "that's why we're
here." She handed another glass to Doyle, picked up the
bottle and a third glass, and sat down in Angel's favorite
leather chair, pouring champagne for herself. "No
television, huh?"
Angel rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Mind the chair;
you're dripping," he cautioned. He tossed her a packet of
napkins from the top of the old refrigerator and took a sip
of his champagne. It wasn't the best, but it was certainly
not bad. "Where'd you get the champagne?" he asked, sure
that neither of them could have afforded it, not on the
salary he paid them.
"I stole it from my dad," Cordelia said, delicately dabbing
up droplets of champagne from the buttery leather. "He'll
never miss a few bottles; he had like a stockpile of the
stuff. I thought you were supposed to stock up on water for
Y2K, not booze."
Doyle sat down across from her on the couch. "Depends on
your priorities, I guess." He grinned and sucked down his
champagne noisily.
Angel gave in to the inevitable. He headed to the end of
the couch closest to Cordelia and the champagne bottle,
forcing Doyle to scoot over to give him room to sit. Doyle
didn't slide very far away; instead of leaning against the
other arm of the couch, the Irish seer elected to curl up
in the middle, draping an arm over the back and letting his
hand dangle close to Angel's shoulder. Angel decided the
most likely explanation was that Doyle wanted to be close
to the alcohol.
"Pass the bottle," said Doyle.
"You drink too fast," scolded Cordelia. "Don't you know
that stuff will make you burp if you - " Doyle belched,
right on cue, and smiled beatifically at her. "Eww!" she
yelled. "Doyle!!"
Angel sighed dramatically. "First hell, now this." He took
a larger, careful drink of his champagne, enjoying the way
it bubbled and tingled on his lips. "I should drink more,"
he mused.
"A fine idea," agreed Doyle. "You need to loosen up some."
The clock bonged gently.
"Ten o'clock," announced Cordelia. "Only two hours left in
this lousy millennium!"
"Actually, the new millennium doesn't start til next - "
"Angel, I'm going to *kill* the next person who tells me
that!" Cordelia growled. "I don't *care* when the next
millennium really starts! Nobody cares, okay?!"
"Uh... okay," said Angel, confused. Doyle snickered.
"And I want to spend the remaining two hours of this one
getting plastered," Cordy finished, and refilled her glass
even though it wasn't empty yet.
Doyle raised his glass. "To a better millennium," he said.
"I'll drink to that," Angel muttered, tapping his glass
against Doyle's. Cordelia leaned forward enough to clink
glasses with theirs, and they all downed their champagne
with a gulp, heedless of the consequences.
Pairing: Angel/Doyle
Rating: NC-17, graphic m/m sex.
Spoilers: Angel: The Series in general; no specific plot
points given away. This occurs after Bachelor Party and
well before Heroe, obviously.
Summary: It's New Year's Eve of the new millennium, and the
staff of Angel Investigations has a few drinks and some fun.
Disclaimer: Nothing of "Angel" belongs to me. It all belongs to Joss Whedon , Mutant Enemy , Kuzui Productions , Fox and the WB
Notes: This was, as will be clear, intended to hit the
lists on New Year's Day 2000, but I was cursed with a soul with chronic writer's block. Please to forgive. Also, I realize I'm playing fast and loose with the canon terms of Angel's Curse here, but if he can't have sex with anybody without losing his soul, we can't have slash fic, and that's just not acceptable.
Angel moved around his spacious apartment restlessly,
cleaning a little, rearranging books, trying to distract
himself from his own bleak thoughts. It was nine-thirty on
New Year's Eve. Angel hated holidays, when people tended to
gather and party. Those nights left him feeling his status
as an outsider acutely. Going out to revel alone had no
appeal, and he knew that even if he'd been on the streets
tonight, he would have done nothing but hunt for bad guys
to dispatch. He dropped into his favorite leather chair.
"You need to loosen up some," he muttered to himself,
mocking Cordelia's words to him earlier that day. "Right. I
wouldn't know how."
He heard noises outside his door, familiar voices. He
sighed and stood up. Cordelia and Doyle, no doubt come to
dutifully wish him Happys and escape him quickly once the
niceties were done, to go party with the rest of the human
race. He snarled a little and yanked the door open before
his visitors could knock.
His friends waved bottles at him. "Time to party,
m'friend!" exclaimed Doyle, looking a bit shnookered
already. "Ringin' in the new year an' all that!"
"Yeah," chimed in Cordelia, her eyes bright, "Happy Auld
Lang Whatever!"
He stared. "Auld Lang Syne," he said, the first thing that
came to mind.
"Yeah, that. Well, let us in!" ordered Cordy cheerfully,
and slipped past him. "Wow, Angel, great decorations!"
"What?" Angel said blankly. "I didn't put up any - oh."
Doyle ducked in under his arm, still holding the door open.
"Don't you have a television in here someplace? We got to
watch Dick Clark an' all. You know, I really think that man
must be undead. Do you know he's seventy years old?"
"Face-lifts," said Cordelia, from the kitchen. "Lots of
face-lifts. The man is, like, a god to me. He gives me
hope. Angel, do you have champagne glasses? And ice?"
"Ah, in the cabinet - of course I have ice! What are you
two doing?"
"You really don't have a bleedin' television, do ya?" said
Doyle, prowling, checking every nook that might conceal a
television, even a tiny one. "How are we gonna know when
the New Year comes in if we can't watch the big ball fall
down?"
"No, I don't. Look, when the big hand and the little hand
are both on twelve and the clock goes bong-bong, it's
midnight, okay?"
"Oh, listen, Doyle, Angel made a funny!"
"Amazin'. Wonder what happens when we get him drunk?" the
Irishman pondered, walking behind Angel, close enough that
Angel could feel his body heat. Which wasn't really all
that close, but still it put him off-guard. Angel was never
entirely sure what to do with people who put him off-guard
but weren't in the killing-and-eating category. He backed
up to the dividing wall, trying to keep both his visitors
in sight, as Cordelia skillfully opened champagne and Doyle
circled the living room like a vulture waiting for dinner.
"Can vampires even get drunk?" Doyle continued.
"Let's find out!" Cordy said brightly, pouring bubbly.
"Why do you want me drunk?" Angel asked nervously.
Doyle stopped in front of him - very close - Doyle had a
tendency to stand very close to him, Angel realized with an
irrational prickle of apprehension - and looked up at him
with huge innocent eyes and spread his hands wide. "It's
New Year's, ya big doof! You're supposed ta get drunk! It's
tradition!"
"And we're here to ensure that you keep that tradition,"
Cordelia stated firmly.
"We'll help, o'course," added Doyle. "Provide an example
and that sort o' thing."
"Look, don't you two want to, to party with, uh, your
friends or something?" Angel asked, uncomfortably.
Cordelia put a glass of cool sparkling champagne in his
hand. "Yes, we do," she said firmly, "that's why we're
here." She handed another glass to Doyle, picked up the
bottle and a third glass, and sat down in Angel's favorite
leather chair, pouring champagne for herself. "No
television, huh?"
Angel rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Mind the chair;
you're dripping," he cautioned. He tossed her a packet of
napkins from the top of the old refrigerator and took a sip
of his champagne. It wasn't the best, but it was certainly
not bad. "Where'd you get the champagne?" he asked, sure
that neither of them could have afforded it, not on the
salary he paid them.
"I stole it from my dad," Cordelia said, delicately dabbing
up droplets of champagne from the buttery leather. "He'll
never miss a few bottles; he had like a stockpile of the
stuff. I thought you were supposed to stock up on water for
Y2K, not booze."
Doyle sat down across from her on the couch. "Depends on
your priorities, I guess." He grinned and sucked down his
champagne noisily.
Angel gave in to the inevitable. He headed to the end of
the couch closest to Cordelia and the champagne bottle,
forcing Doyle to scoot over to give him room to sit. Doyle
didn't slide very far away; instead of leaning against the
other arm of the couch, the Irish seer elected to curl up
in the middle, draping an arm over the back and letting his
hand dangle close to Angel's shoulder. Angel decided the
most likely explanation was that Doyle wanted to be close
to the alcohol.
"Pass the bottle," said Doyle.
"You drink too fast," scolded Cordelia. "Don't you know
that stuff will make you burp if you - " Doyle belched,
right on cue, and smiled beatifically at her. "Eww!" she
yelled. "Doyle!!"
Angel sighed dramatically. "First hell, now this." He took
a larger, careful drink of his champagne, enjoying the way
it bubbled and tingled on his lips. "I should drink more,"
he mused.
"A fine idea," agreed Doyle. "You need to loosen up some."
The clock bonged gently.
"Ten o'clock," announced Cordelia. "Only two hours left in
this lousy millennium!"
"Actually, the new millennium doesn't start til next - "
"Angel, I'm going to *kill* the next person who tells me
that!" Cordelia growled. "I don't *care* when the next
millennium really starts! Nobody cares, okay?!"
"Uh... okay," said Angel, confused. Doyle snickered.
"And I want to spend the remaining two hours of this one
getting plastered," Cordy finished, and refilled her glass
even though it wasn't empty yet.
Doyle raised his glass. "To a better millennium," he said.
"I'll drink to that," Angel muttered, tapping his glass
against Doyle's. Cordelia leaned forward enough to clink
glasses with theirs, and they all downed their champagne
with a gulp, heedless of the consequences.