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thebratqueenAnother charity fic. This one for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
illiadawry, who asked for a "1k-words Trust Me-verse story" in exchange for a donation to Doctors Without Borders.
Other charity fics can be found here
The basement of Our Lady of Hope and Peace was cold, smoke-filled, and looked as though it hadn't been redecorated since prior to Vatican II.
Which made it more or less like every other church basement that Angel had ever been in.
He walked in, casting his eyes about the crowd. It was a good sized group. Maybe fifteen people or so. They spanned various ages from grey-haired to - here Angel's gut twisted, thinking of Connor, who Angel hoped and prayed would *not* inherit that particular curve of his family's DNA - those who were just past their teenaged years.
Angel took note of that, and of the various racial backgrounds, and then dismissed the rest. He'd learned long ago that you could never tell the rich from the poor in places like this, and even if you could this was the one location where it didn't matter.
One of the men and two of the women glanced his way. Angel wondered if he should wave, or introduce himself. But they kept on looking and he realized they were welcoming the woman who had entered behind him. He dropped his hand down, hoping nobody had noticed.
A large chrome coffee pot commanded one end of a metal-legged folding table. Angel performed the ritual of filling a cup, adding cream and two sugars, then stirring with a wooden stick exactly nine times. It wasn't that he cared about the number, it was just that he'd done it so often he could have gone through the motions in his sleep.
Yellow and orange plastic chairs had been pulled into a rough circle. Angel took a seat two rows back, not really wanting to be in the middle of anything. He propped one leg up on the chair in front of him, then raised his coffee to his lips.
"Wouldn't do that if I were you."
Angel stopped. "Huh?"
A thin, dark-haired man sat down beside him. When he spoke, the words lilted in a familiar brogue. "Wouldn't do that if I were you. That stuff's right out of one of the circles of Hell."
Angel gave the coffee an experimental sniff. "Seems okay."
"It's your funeral," the man said.
Angel tried a sip. He immediately winced, and tried not to spit it back. "Christ."
"I warned ya," the man sat back, resting his own coffee cup against his knee. "Don't know why they even bother. Been doing it for years, it hasn't tasted better once."
"Well it… kind of makes sense," Angel said.
The man frowned. "How d'you figure?"
"It's like reinforcement," Angel held up his cup to demonstrate. "We drink this, it's horrible, and that teaches us to never put liquid in our mouths ever again."
"I follow you," the man said. "It's like the thirteenth step."
"Exactly," Angel said, glad he'd managed to get the joke across, even if the other man hadn't laughed at it.
"Though might be more like zero, since most of us meet the coffee before we gear up for admitting we're powerless and blah blah," the man raised his cup to take a sip.
Angel held his hand out to stop him. "Wait, I thought - "
"Oh me?" the man shrugged. "I don't mind. I've got a death wish. So you're new here, right?"
"Yeah," Angel said. As long as his hand was out, he offered it to shake. "Angel."
"Doyle," the man replied. He returned the handshake, then let go so he could indicate the rest of the room. "It's not so bad. Once you get past the thing they're calling coffee, everything else is pretty good. 'course that means trying not to show how bored you are at the hundredth person who thinks their story about seeking out a higher power after waking up in a puddle of their own puke is unique or interesting." Catching Angel looking at him, Doyle quickly added, "Er, not that *yours* isn't fascinating, I'm sure."
"I didn't," Angel said. "I mean, I *did* but that isn't when I finally did the right thing and put my faith in the powers that be."
"Yeah, there ain't nothing like Naomi Campbell's thighs," Doyle said.
Angel pondered that for a few moments. "Okay, it sounded like you were agreeing with me there, except - "
"My higher power," Doyle explained. "We're supposed to trust in a higher power as we understand it. Far as I'm concerned, there's nothing more heavenly on this earth than Naomi Campbell's thighs. Except maybe her - "
"Okay, yeah, I got you," Angel said.
"Laugh if you want, but it's kept me sober," Doyle looked him over. "So what's your story? Going by appearances I'd say the male modeling-cum-rock star gig was too much to handle, you took care of the stress using the finest hops in the land, found you couldn't get a contract while you were completely pissed and now here you are."
"I’m an alcoholic," Angel said.
"So's everybody else," Doyle flicked a hand in the direction of the rest of the group. "Unless maybe we've got some bingo-players whose eyes aren't what they used to be."
"That's my story," Angel said. "There's nothing extra that makes it special. I drank because I have a drinking problem."
"Spoken like a true recovery philosopher," Doyle toasted him with his cup. "Me, I'm here because the holidays are a rough time of year for me."
Angel frowned, thinking of the date. "You're that into Groundhog day?"
"Sure, means nothing to you," Doyle said, "but I once lost twenty bucks on whether that little rat bastard would see his shadow. That's a pain that needs good whiskey to cure."
Angel knew this kind of logic. "And if you'd won?"
"A joy that needs good whiskey to celebrate," Doyle replied. "'course too much of that and you start forgetting what bets you made where. Bad enough when you're losing, but it's insult to injury when there's winnings to be had."
"Is that what made you stop?" Angel asked.
Doyle gave a non-committal shrug. "One of many reasons."
"I've got a son," Angel offered. "That's what did it for me. I couldn't stand for him to lose his dad."
"Admirable goal," Doyle said. "Your missus must be happy about it too."
Angel frowned. "What?"
"Mrs. Furrowed Brow," Doyle nodded in the direction of Angel's wedding ring. "Must be thrilled that you're back on the wagon again."
"Oh. That. Um," Angel pulled his left hand into a fist, feeling self-conscious. "I - I'm not. Married. Anymore. Darla - she passed away."
Doyle gave a sympathetic wince. "Sorry."
"Not your fault," Angel said.
"I've been told by more people than you that my big mouth *is* my fault," Doyle said.
"She - it was years ago," Angel said. "It's okay. It's not recent. It… that's why I'm here, actually."
Doyle nodded. "Losing your wife's a good reason to want to make a bottle your best friend."
"What? Oh, no," Angel said. "I was a drunk before that. Well, I'd been *sober* but - that's not it either. I sobered up. Again. Haven't touched a drop in over five years. It's the rest I'm supposed to be working on."
"What rest?" Doyle asked.
"Having a life," Angel said. He stared down into his coffee cup, digging half-moons into the Styrofoam with his thumbnail. "Ever since Darla died I - I've been keeping mostly to myself. Work, Connor - that's my son - work again. My therapist says I'm supposed to do more. Get hobbies, make new friends, get out of the house. So… I thought I'd try it."
"You weren't doing AA before that?" Doyle asked.
"I was," Angel said. "One meeting a week. I just figured I'd, you know, do more. That's why I'm here. My usual group doesn't meet on Thursdays."
"Angel, if you're not having a tough time of it - " Doyle shook his head, leaning in to drive the point home. "This isn't a *hobby*, man. It's *survival*. You come here to get strong, and sober. Then you get *out* and start doing all those things that drinking was keeping you from."
"I - " Angel faltered. He met Doyle's eyes, as though maybe he could find guidance there. "That used to be my wife. Her and Connor were *why* I got sober all those years ago. Then once she was gone… and now it's just him and me… I - I don't know what I want to do."
"Well you're not going to find out around this sorry bunch," Doyle looked around, then pitched his coffee cup into an open trash can. "Come on. You don't need a meeting. I'm taking you out."
Angel blinked. "Excuse me?"
"*Outside*," Doyle said, gesturing towards the door. "Where the people are. *Real* people. Everyday folk who'll remind you there's more to life than brooding in the darkness."
Angel looked back towards were the meeting leader was getting ready to call the group to order. "I don't know. What if I can't handle it? I *drank* in the real world, Doyle. I can't risk going back to that again."
"If this is all you've got," Doyle said, "you *will* drink again. You can't be let yourself be afraid. Go out and meet the world head-on. Take away that nameless fear. Otherwise it'll be too easy for you to fall back on old habits. What's one drink? You'll ask. Not like anybody out there cares."
Angel shook his head. "My son - "
"Can't be your sobriety," Doyle held out his hand, as though Angel needed help getting out of the chair. "You've got to do it for you, and five years or not, that won't happen if you're not giving up that part of you that was happy to turn to the booze as soon as the chips were down."
Angel twisted his wedding ring around his finger. "I feel like that's betraying her."
"I'm asking you to join me in watching a basketball game or something," Doyle said, "not come back and look at my etchings. Not, for the record, that I'm not a demon in the sack."
Angel wasn't sure if Doyle had meant that platonically or not. "Okay. But if this doesn't work out tomorrow night we do what I want to do."
"If you insist," Doyle said, not seeming bothered by that option in the slightest.
illiadawry, who asked for a "1k-words Trust Me-verse story" in exchange for a donation to Doctors Without Borders.Other charity fics can be found here
The basement of Our Lady of Hope and Peace was cold, smoke-filled, and looked as though it hadn't been redecorated since prior to Vatican II.
Which made it more or less like every other church basement that Angel had ever been in.
He walked in, casting his eyes about the crowd. It was a good sized group. Maybe fifteen people or so. They spanned various ages from grey-haired to - here Angel's gut twisted, thinking of Connor, who Angel hoped and prayed would *not* inherit that particular curve of his family's DNA - those who were just past their teenaged years.
Angel took note of that, and of the various racial backgrounds, and then dismissed the rest. He'd learned long ago that you could never tell the rich from the poor in places like this, and even if you could this was the one location where it didn't matter.
One of the men and two of the women glanced his way. Angel wondered if he should wave, or introduce himself. But they kept on looking and he realized they were welcoming the woman who had entered behind him. He dropped his hand down, hoping nobody had noticed.
A large chrome coffee pot commanded one end of a metal-legged folding table. Angel performed the ritual of filling a cup, adding cream and two sugars, then stirring with a wooden stick exactly nine times. It wasn't that he cared about the number, it was just that he'd done it so often he could have gone through the motions in his sleep.
Yellow and orange plastic chairs had been pulled into a rough circle. Angel took a seat two rows back, not really wanting to be in the middle of anything. He propped one leg up on the chair in front of him, then raised his coffee to his lips.
"Wouldn't do that if I were you."
Angel stopped. "Huh?"
A thin, dark-haired man sat down beside him. When he spoke, the words lilted in a familiar brogue. "Wouldn't do that if I were you. That stuff's right out of one of the circles of Hell."
Angel gave the coffee an experimental sniff. "Seems okay."
"It's your funeral," the man said.
Angel tried a sip. He immediately winced, and tried not to spit it back. "Christ."
"I warned ya," the man sat back, resting his own coffee cup against his knee. "Don't know why they even bother. Been doing it for years, it hasn't tasted better once."
"Well it… kind of makes sense," Angel said.
The man frowned. "How d'you figure?"
"It's like reinforcement," Angel held up his cup to demonstrate. "We drink this, it's horrible, and that teaches us to never put liquid in our mouths ever again."
"I follow you," the man said. "It's like the thirteenth step."
"Exactly," Angel said, glad he'd managed to get the joke across, even if the other man hadn't laughed at it.
"Though might be more like zero, since most of us meet the coffee before we gear up for admitting we're powerless and blah blah," the man raised his cup to take a sip.
Angel held his hand out to stop him. "Wait, I thought - "
"Oh me?" the man shrugged. "I don't mind. I've got a death wish. So you're new here, right?"
"Yeah," Angel said. As long as his hand was out, he offered it to shake. "Angel."
"Doyle," the man replied. He returned the handshake, then let go so he could indicate the rest of the room. "It's not so bad. Once you get past the thing they're calling coffee, everything else is pretty good. 'course that means trying not to show how bored you are at the hundredth person who thinks their story about seeking out a higher power after waking up in a puddle of their own puke is unique or interesting." Catching Angel looking at him, Doyle quickly added, "Er, not that *yours* isn't fascinating, I'm sure."
"I didn't," Angel said. "I mean, I *did* but that isn't when I finally did the right thing and put my faith in the powers that be."
"Yeah, there ain't nothing like Naomi Campbell's thighs," Doyle said.
Angel pondered that for a few moments. "Okay, it sounded like you were agreeing with me there, except - "
"My higher power," Doyle explained. "We're supposed to trust in a higher power as we understand it. Far as I'm concerned, there's nothing more heavenly on this earth than Naomi Campbell's thighs. Except maybe her - "
"Okay, yeah, I got you," Angel said.
"Laugh if you want, but it's kept me sober," Doyle looked him over. "So what's your story? Going by appearances I'd say the male modeling-cum-rock star gig was too much to handle, you took care of the stress using the finest hops in the land, found you couldn't get a contract while you were completely pissed and now here you are."
"I’m an alcoholic," Angel said.
"So's everybody else," Doyle flicked a hand in the direction of the rest of the group. "Unless maybe we've got some bingo-players whose eyes aren't what they used to be."
"That's my story," Angel said. "There's nothing extra that makes it special. I drank because I have a drinking problem."
"Spoken like a true recovery philosopher," Doyle toasted him with his cup. "Me, I'm here because the holidays are a rough time of year for me."
Angel frowned, thinking of the date. "You're that into Groundhog day?"
"Sure, means nothing to you," Doyle said, "but I once lost twenty bucks on whether that little rat bastard would see his shadow. That's a pain that needs good whiskey to cure."
Angel knew this kind of logic. "And if you'd won?"
"A joy that needs good whiskey to celebrate," Doyle replied. "'course too much of that and you start forgetting what bets you made where. Bad enough when you're losing, but it's insult to injury when there's winnings to be had."
"Is that what made you stop?" Angel asked.
Doyle gave a non-committal shrug. "One of many reasons."
"I've got a son," Angel offered. "That's what did it for me. I couldn't stand for him to lose his dad."
"Admirable goal," Doyle said. "Your missus must be happy about it too."
Angel frowned. "What?"
"Mrs. Furrowed Brow," Doyle nodded in the direction of Angel's wedding ring. "Must be thrilled that you're back on the wagon again."
"Oh. That. Um," Angel pulled his left hand into a fist, feeling self-conscious. "I - I'm not. Married. Anymore. Darla - she passed away."
Doyle gave a sympathetic wince. "Sorry."
"Not your fault," Angel said.
"I've been told by more people than you that my big mouth *is* my fault," Doyle said.
"She - it was years ago," Angel said. "It's okay. It's not recent. It… that's why I'm here, actually."
Doyle nodded. "Losing your wife's a good reason to want to make a bottle your best friend."
"What? Oh, no," Angel said. "I was a drunk before that. Well, I'd been *sober* but - that's not it either. I sobered up. Again. Haven't touched a drop in over five years. It's the rest I'm supposed to be working on."
"What rest?" Doyle asked.
"Having a life," Angel said. He stared down into his coffee cup, digging half-moons into the Styrofoam with his thumbnail. "Ever since Darla died I - I've been keeping mostly to myself. Work, Connor - that's my son - work again. My therapist says I'm supposed to do more. Get hobbies, make new friends, get out of the house. So… I thought I'd try it."
"You weren't doing AA before that?" Doyle asked.
"I was," Angel said. "One meeting a week. I just figured I'd, you know, do more. That's why I'm here. My usual group doesn't meet on Thursdays."
"Angel, if you're not having a tough time of it - " Doyle shook his head, leaning in to drive the point home. "This isn't a *hobby*, man. It's *survival*. You come here to get strong, and sober. Then you get *out* and start doing all those things that drinking was keeping you from."
"I - " Angel faltered. He met Doyle's eyes, as though maybe he could find guidance there. "That used to be my wife. Her and Connor were *why* I got sober all those years ago. Then once she was gone… and now it's just him and me… I - I don't know what I want to do."
"Well you're not going to find out around this sorry bunch," Doyle looked around, then pitched his coffee cup into an open trash can. "Come on. You don't need a meeting. I'm taking you out."
Angel blinked. "Excuse me?"
"*Outside*," Doyle said, gesturing towards the door. "Where the people are. *Real* people. Everyday folk who'll remind you there's more to life than brooding in the darkness."
Angel looked back towards were the meeting leader was getting ready to call the group to order. "I don't know. What if I can't handle it? I *drank* in the real world, Doyle. I can't risk going back to that again."
"If this is all you've got," Doyle said, "you *will* drink again. You can't be let yourself be afraid. Go out and meet the world head-on. Take away that nameless fear. Otherwise it'll be too easy for you to fall back on old habits. What's one drink? You'll ask. Not like anybody out there cares."
Angel shook his head. "My son - "
"Can't be your sobriety," Doyle held out his hand, as though Angel needed help getting out of the chair. "You've got to do it for you, and five years or not, that won't happen if you're not giving up that part of you that was happy to turn to the booze as soon as the chips were down."
Angel twisted his wedding ring around his finger. "I feel like that's betraying her."
"I'm asking you to join me in watching a basketball game or something," Doyle said, "not come back and look at my etchings. Not, for the record, that I'm not a demon in the sack."
Angel wasn't sure if Doyle had meant that platonically or not. "Okay. But if this doesn't work out tomorrow night we do what I want to do."
"If you insist," Doyle said, not seeming bothered by that option in the slightest.
