__Bloody Hell__
By Dien
Doyle, Wesley, and Willow walked into Giles's living room. The LA division of the Scoobies, which included Wesley Wyndham-Price, Cordelia, Doyle, and Angel, were `on call' in Sunnydale, due not to the threat of a large vampire infestation, not due to any evil prophecy, nor to monsters, demons, ghouls, incubi, succubi, werewolves, zombies, shades, harpies, Gorgons, Medusas, Mayors, etc. No, none of that was responsible.
There was an incredible sale on shoes. Cordelia heard about it. Enough said. Buffy was currently out looking for Spike, who had escaped from the bathtub, Oz was at rehearsal for the Dingoes, and Giles, Cordelia, Angel and Xander were in the kitchen as the three mentioned at the beginning of this stupid story entered the house. Doyle was telling jokes.
"Alright, so there's these three Englishmen, right? They go into a pub, and there's this Irishman sitting there. So they decide to have a little fun with him. The first Englishman goes over and says to the Irishman, `Hey, I hear your St. Patrick is really a sodding bugger.'
"The Irishman shrugs and doesn't say anything. The Brit scratches his head and goes back to the other two and tells `em what happened. The second Englishman says, `Oh, you just don't know how to do it.' So he goes over and says, `I hear your St. Patrick is really a whore dressed in man's clothes.'
"The Irishman shrugs and doesn't say anything. The Brit scratches his head and goes back to the other two and tells `em what happened. The third Englishman says, `Oh, you just don't know how to do it.' So he goes over and says, `I hear your St. Patrick is really an Englishman.'
"The Irishman looks up at him an' says, `Yeah, that's what your two mates there been tryin' to tell me!'" Doyle exploded into laughter as he finished his joke, cracking up and trying to catch his breath.
Willow looked perplexed. "I don't get it."
Wesley looked unhappy. "I do," he said through gritted teeth. "And I don't find it funny."
"Aw, come on," Doyle said, still recovering from his own joke. "It's--ha--hil--haha--hilar-hehhoohee--hilari--ahoohha--larious--HAHA!--It's--aha-hehhaha--FUNNY!" he sputtered.
"It is not," Wesley replied stiffly. "I demand that you take it back. I am deeply offended by it."
"You're what...? HAHAHAHAHA!" Doyle exploded into laughter once more.
"Take it back," Wesley growled, in a very unusual mood swing for him. "Or I shall be forced to...to..."
"To what? Tell Cordelia?" Doyle managed before exploding once more.
"To fight you!" Wesley screeched angrily. Though it was not humanly possible, Doyle laughed harder.
Wesley turned an interesting shade of purple and hit Doyle.
Doyle fell to the ground, as much in surprise as in pain, and got up again, staring incredulously at the once-Watcher.
"Did you just hit me?"
"I just hit you."
"You just hit me."
"I just hit you.
"You just hit me!"
"I just hit you! And I shall hit you again if you do not take it back!"
"What the bloody hell is going on here?!" Giles exclaimed, entering the room with Cordelia.
"He just hit me!" Doyle said, still in shock.
"You just hit him?" Giles said, disbelieving.
"You just hit him?" Cordelia said, surprised.
"I just hit him! Why does everyone find that so hard to believe?!" Wesley said, angrily.
"He just hit him," Cordelia and Giles said in unison, turning to one another in shock.
"Why...?" Giles finally managed.
"Because he wouldn't take it back," Wesley sniffed.
"Wouldn't take what back?" Cordelia frowned.
Doyle sighed. "I was telling him a joke," he explained. "You know, that one with the bar and the three Brits and the Irishman, and the first Brit comes over and says, `Hey, I hear your St. Patrick's--'"
"I know the joke," Giles snapped, interrupting Doyle.
"You do? Isn't it hilarious?" Doyle grinned.
"No," Giles growled. "I think Wesley's right. You should take it back."
"What? What's the matter with you Brits? Don't you have a sense of guuurk!"
Giles grabbed Doyle's throat and, slipping subconsciously into a Cockney accent, muttered threateningly, "Take it back..."
At this point, Angel walked in. "What is going on here?!" he yelled.
"Giles has gone insane," Cordelia, to Angel.
"Something to do with the Irish versus the English, I think," Willow, to Angel.
"A deserved thrashing," Wesley, to Angel.
"Take...it...back..." Giles, to Doyle.
"GuURRRKK!" Doyle, to Giles.
Angel walked over and, with some effort, pried Giles's hand off Doyle's throat. Doyle gasped thankfully for air as Angel laid a restraining hand on Giles's shoulder.
"Now, what is all this about?" he said sternly, as soon as Doyle was able to breathe again.
"Well, I was just telling =coff coff= Wesley and Giles that joke--you know, there's these three Brits, who go into the bar, and the first one goes over to the Irishman and says, `Hey, I hear that your St. Patrick is--'"
"Oh, that joke! Heh. I know that joke," Angel chuckled.
"You do? Isn't it hilarious?"
"Yeah. Heh heh. Ha. Haha," Angel said, starting to laugh harder as he thought about it.
"It's not funny," Giles and Wesley growled together through clenched teeth.
Angel managed to stop laughing long enough to say, "Why? Hitting a little too close to home, or somewhere else?" at which point he and Doyle collapsed into fits of laughter.
"That's it," Giles snapped, planting his fist into Angel's face. Angel reeled back from the force of the blow, though he quickly recovered and said to Doyle, "Come on, Doyle! We Dubliners can take these British pricks!"
"Er, yeah, except...well, I'm from Belfast," Doyle muttered.
Angel stood up out of his fighting stance, looking over at Doyle with an expression of surprise. "Really? I always thought you were from Dublin."
"Nope. Belfast."
"Oh." Angel turned back to the Englishmen, then paused. "Hey...you aren't Protestant, are you?" he asked suspiciously.
"Weeelll...Let's just deal with the English, shall we?" Doyle sidestepped the question. Angel grimaced but nodded, rolling up his sleeves and turning back to Giles and Wesley.
"You Brits ready to get trounced?" he growled.
"Any time you are," Wesley hissed, taking off his coat. "Damn Irish..."
"Then--"
"Hey guys! Found Spike!" Buffy called cheerfully, entering the room and dragging behind her the blond vampire, securely tied up. Her expression changed as she saw the scene in the room. "Um. Okay, why do you guys look like you're all about to kill each other?"
"It's a question of honor," Wesley said stiffly, before smirking. "And of thrashing the thrice-blasted Irish."
"Hey, what's this about the Irish?" Spike said curiously, momentarily stopping his struggling.
"Doyle and Angel--also known as the bleedin' soddin' Irish--are about to get their arses ripped apart after makin' the indiscretion of telling a joke that--" Giles began through clenched teeth, taking off his coat.
"Joke? What joke?" Spike asked.
Doyle grinned and started it for the fourth time. "There's these three Englishmen, see, who go into a bar with this Irishman, and--"
"Ahhrgh, I've heard that bloody joke!" Spike roared angrily.
"Isn't it soddin' imbecilic?" Giles asked him, momentarily forgetting the vampire was a supposed enemy.
"Yeah. I hate that damn joke," Spike snarled.
"Me too," Giles said. "Where do the bloody Irish get off with their damn--"
"I know! You'd think they were God's special benefaction to the rest o' the fuckin' world!" Spike said incredulously.
"Precisely! Nothing pisses me off like damned Irish arrogance," Giles said, he and Spike having found some common ground.
Giles crouched down next to Spike, hurriedly untying him, saying, "Come on, Spike, you can help bash their arses in."
"Right, mate," he said as Giles helped him up, both of them--for the moment--comrades in arms (along with Wesley), Doyle and Angel against them, all united by a hatred that went far beyond the measly divisions of demon, human, good, evil, living, non-living, enemy, ally...
"You pricks drink warm beer," Angel growled.
"Oh, go suck your cock," Spike snarled.
Wesley smirked. "Looking at the battle lines, it appears you Irish are outsmarted, outclassed, outpowered, and outnumbered."
At that moment, Oz walked in. He took one look at the group, then took off his coat without a word and walked over to stand by Angel and Doyle. "Huh?" said Willow, and nearly everyone else.
Oz gave an apologetic glance toward his girlfriend. "I'm Scottish by heritage. Scottish...English...what can I say...?"
And the insults started to fly.
"Fuckin' Irish."
"Bastard English."
"Demon-worshippers."
"Bloody wankers."
"Soddin' buggers."
"Damn bloodsucker."
"Hey--!"
"Sorry, Angel."
"Savage uncivilised poncers."
"Bloody pieces of feckin' shite."
"Blasted pillocks."
"You're such a sorry lot, you wouldn't know how to shag if it wasn't for--"
"Warm beer drinkers!"
"You already said that."
"Shut up."
Willow, Buffy, and Cordelia stared in mute shock.
It was never known who took the first swing, but one moment the battle lines were drawn, British on one side of the room, Irish/Scottish on the other, and the next, it was a massive melee, a free-for-all brawl that should have been taking place in a pub rather than the living room of Rupert Giles, though to be perfectly honest, Rupert Giles was not currently in the apartment, having been replaced by Ripper.
Spike socks Angel hard enough that he flies across the room and smashes into a wall, cracking the plaster, before turning to Oz, who has pulled a cross from some unknown place and Doyle jumps on Ripper, attempting to pin him to the carpet, but is stopped by Ripper's knee in his groin and thrown to the floor and by the time he recovers, Ripper is smashing Angel's face several times into a bookshelf, to the vampire's supreme annoyance and so Doyle turns to Wesley, who is lunging at him with a sword--who knows where he had gotten it--and Doyle narrowly avoids getting skewered before throwing a chair at Wesley, which misses and hits Spike, who was still pounding on Oz, as Angel backhands Ripper, who gets up and tackles Oz as Angel jumps on Wesley, who would have been out of commission in a few minutes except that Spike yanks Angel off and delivers a roundhouse kick to his fellow vampire so Doyle grabs Ripper from behind to pull him off Oz, who scrambles to his feet and starts to hit the grabbed Englishman, who receives several blows to his face before Wesley can drag Oz to the ground, at which point they roll around in a jumble with fists flying, as Ripper backs Doyle into a wall, smashing him against it....
"You fuckin' bastard!" CRACK!
"You little--OUCH!" SMACK!
"I got him--EEEARRRGH!" SMASH!
"ohshitohshitohshit..." BAM!
"Aaaaoouuaaa!!! Leggoleggoleggo..." FWUMP!
"Bloody bastard son of a French whore" CRASH! And so it goes....
"STOP!" Cordelia screeched at maximum volume, which is very loud, and everyone froze: Oz was straddling Wesley, one hand at his throat, the other lifted to punch, and both had bloody noses; Ripper, with a split lip, had Angel in some sort of arm/headlock that, if Angel were human, would have broken his arm by now; Doyle--with a black eye--had grabbed a leg of the busted chair and was holding it at Spike's--who was choking him-- throat. The room was quiet.
"Are you all insane?" Buffy asked incredulously. "You guys are fighting like...like...like..."
"Like the British and Irish?" Cordy supplied helpfully.
"Well...I was thinking more like pre-schoolers...They must be under a spell...Will, are they under a spell?"
"I...don't think so..." the redheaded witch murmured.
"What is up with you guys?" Cordelia muttered.
"It's a British thing" "It's an Irish thing" "It's a Scottish thing" several voices murmured in unison.
"Well, I don't care if it is a whatever thing," Cordelia said authoritatively. "There has got to be a more civilized way to settle it."
"Like what?" Wesley said belligerently.
"Ummm....drinking...a...drinking contest? A drinking contest!" Cordy exclaimed triumphantly.
"A...drinkin'...contest...?" Ripper said sarcastically. "That...has got to be the most..." he paused, "brilliant idea I have ever heard! I'm up for it.
Anyone else?" he said, smiling and releasing Angel.
General muttering, and then Oz shrugging, letting Wesley up, and nodding; Spike considering, grinning, and letting go of Doyle's throat; Angel saying affably, "Sounds good to me..."
"A pub-crawl, eh?" grinned Spike. "What's the dram to be? We'll let the Irish name the poison, eh?"
"You mates gotta be crazy..." starts Doyle. "Everyone knows you Brits can't hold brew worth shite, and if you let us pick it...Well, lads, what do ye say? Should we pick somethin' tame so they can at least last a couple o' rounds?"
"I'll give you tame..." Ripper started, lifting a fist but stopping at Cordelia's glare.
"How about some good bitter?" Angel asked.
"Mmmm...I'd prefer a nip or two of brandy," Wesley murmured, sitting up and wiping blood off his nose.
"Oh, it has to be Scotch and rum," Oz said authoritatively.
"Well, I dunno, some Irish whiskey would go down well...if the Brits could handle it," Doyle smirked, though he subsided after Ripper's glare.
"Bloody Marys," Spike said, licking his lips.
"Maybe vodka," Angel mused.
"Martinis," Wesley suggested.
"No," Ripper said sharply into the growing talk, and everyone shut up. "I can only think of one drink for this situation. Absinthe." He grinned, wolfish. "You wankers think you can handle that?"
"Bet you they can't," Spike grinned.
"The hell we cain't!" Doyle yelled furiously. "The Irish are the greatest drinkers on the whole bleedin' earth!"
"The greatest drunks, you mean," Ripper retorted sarcastically. "Right then, absinthe it is. Whichever side has the last person conscious--British or" he snorted, "Irish/Scottish wins. Fair?"
"Fair," Angel growled, shaking Ripper's hand.
"Then let's bloody get to the bar, shall we?"
One hour later...
Ripper and Oz jumped onto the table and started singing a Beatles song, much to Wesley's enjoyment as he applauded, occasionally sliding from his chair to the floor. Spike had his shirt off and was showing his tattoos to Doyle, who couldn't care less as he balanced a spoon on Angel's nose, much to Angel's annoyance as he tried to put pretzels in Wesley's hair...
Buffy, Willow, and Cordelia watched in a state of shock.
Two hours later...
Doyle hiccuped and reached for his drink again, though he had trouble grabbing it, since there were about four of them to his eyes. He lost his balance and reached for the edge of the table to steady him, but his fingers passed right through it and he fell to the floor, suddenly realizing just how hilarious the leg of the table next to his face really was. He laughed until he it started to hurt, and then he felt Oz's hand on his shoulder, pulling him upright, then shoving his drink at him.
"You better drinnk summa tha," Oz slurred, gulping down some of the green liquid in his own mug. Doyle nodded, though he made no move to drink as he stared at Wesley's unconscious body, wondering vaguely why they were both on the floor.
Spike was leaning back in his chair, singing softly and off-key to himself, occasionally taking a swig from the glass in his hands. Angel was staring into his cup as he had been doing for the last ten minutes, though he would often manage to drink from it as well. Ripper was alternating between yelling in an unintelligible voice for refills, even though his glass--his sixth so far--was nearly full--joining Spike's song, chuckling softly to himself, and arm-wrestling the unresisting Oz.
Three hours later...
Spike got up, muttering, "Be ri' back...gonna go'wan take a piss..." He got as far as Doyle's body, on the floor, before tripping and falling heavily to the floor. He did not get back up. Angel looked uncomprehendingly at Spike's unconscious body for several minutes before roughly jostling Oz's shoulder. "Hey. Hey. We're...winn'ng..." Oz, who had been slumped on the table, fell to the floor at Angel's shoving. Angel stared at the body for several minutes before taking another drink.
Ripper looked at Oz too for a long moment before returning his attention to the Wesley's body, which he was idly pouring someone's beer on. Buffy and the other girls had had to take away his matches and lighter after he had tried to set fire to Oz.
Willow and Cordelia slept somewhat peacefully in their chairs, no longer caring who was going to win the contest. Buffy blinked, yawned, and returned her gaze to the vampire and the Watcher.
Four hours later...
"Hey. `Njul. `Njulll. Wak'up," Ripper slurred, ineffectually hitting Angel's form. Angel did not stir from his slumped over position. Buffy yawned. "I guess that means you win, Giles." No response.
"Giles?"
Buffy looked at him, sitting and staring glassy eyed into space. He took one last swallow from his absinthe, before keeling over onto the floor.
Victory for the British.
Ethan grinned, watching from the far corner of the bar. The scrying spell he had in Ripper's flat had informed him of the delightful little row going on, and when he had heard about the drinking contest, he had just had to come see who would win. And of course to slip a little something in Ripper's absinthe...
* * *