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trillingstar - Oz/Angel crossover
May. 27th, 2009 03:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cmk418Part of my last prompt request post - Here's the request -
Doyle/Ryan O'Reily, not necessarily slashy (although never turned down!). O'Reily's gang is part of Doyle's shady past.
Doyle was lining up his shot when he was bumped from the side. The pool stick moved slightly, sending the cue ball forward a centimeter. “Hey! Hey there! Excuse me!” Doyle didn’t usually get riled, but his last twenty dollars was riding on this game and his opponent had been matching him shot for shot.
“What?” The guy that uttered the question wasn’t overly large, but he was muscular and looked like he could take a man Doyle's size in a fight. Doyle couldn’t shake the feeling of familiarity either.
“You messed up my shot.”
Clack came the sound from the pool cue hitting the ball, followed by the clunk of a ball falling into the pocket. “Quit your whining. You’re distracting me,” said the skinny blond man who was lining up another shot.
“Wait, wait, wait a minute,” said Doyle. “This isn’t right.”
The man that had knocked into him had settled into a spot next to the bar, watching the game intently. There was a smirk on his face.
Doyle looked from the man to his opponent. The two of them could have been brothers. No, no, the two of them were…
“Eight ball side pocket,” called out his opponent.
Doyle turned back to watch the eight ball disappear along with his twenty.
“Want to go again? Double or nothing?”
“You two do this often?”
“Do what?”
“Cheat people out of their money.”
“Well, actually Cyril likes to fight. Especially people that accuse me of cheating.”
“Fine.”
Doyle didn’t use his demon strength often, but in this instance, it came in handy. He felled Cyril with one punch, earning a soft “damn” from the other man.
The other man stuck his hand out. “Ryan O’Reily.”
“Doyle.”
“You Irish?”
“Can’t you recognize a brogue when you hear it?”
“Sure. Sometimes we get a poser that wants to be part of the gang.”
“What gang is that?”
“You really haven’t been here long, have you?”
“Nope.”
“We’re the O’Reily brothers. We run Bridget Street. Ask around. Then come look us up. We could use another fighter.”
“All right.” Doyle watched as Ryan dragged Cyril out of the bar.
The trip to California would have to wait a while.
Doyle/Ryan O'Reily, not necessarily slashy (although never turned down!). O'Reily's gang is part of Doyle's shady past.
Doyle was lining up his shot when he was bumped from the side. The pool stick moved slightly, sending the cue ball forward a centimeter. “Hey! Hey there! Excuse me!” Doyle didn’t usually get riled, but his last twenty dollars was riding on this game and his opponent had been matching him shot for shot.
“What?” The guy that uttered the question wasn’t overly large, but he was muscular and looked like he could take a man Doyle's size in a fight. Doyle couldn’t shake the feeling of familiarity either.
“You messed up my shot.”
Clack came the sound from the pool cue hitting the ball, followed by the clunk of a ball falling into the pocket. “Quit your whining. You’re distracting me,” said the skinny blond man who was lining up another shot.
“Wait, wait, wait a minute,” said Doyle. “This isn’t right.”
The man that had knocked into him had settled into a spot next to the bar, watching the game intently. There was a smirk on his face.
Doyle looked from the man to his opponent. The two of them could have been brothers. No, no, the two of them were…
“Eight ball side pocket,” called out his opponent.
Doyle turned back to watch the eight ball disappear along with his twenty.
“Want to go again? Double or nothing?”
“You two do this often?”
“Do what?”
“Cheat people out of their money.”
“Well, actually Cyril likes to fight. Especially people that accuse me of cheating.”
“Fine.”
Doyle didn’t use his demon strength often, but in this instance, it came in handy. He felled Cyril with one punch, earning a soft “damn” from the other man.
The other man stuck his hand out. “Ryan O’Reily.”
“Doyle.”
“You Irish?”
“Can’t you recognize a brogue when you hear it?”
“Sure. Sometimes we get a poser that wants to be part of the gang.”
“What gang is that?”
“You really haven’t been here long, have you?”
“Nope.”
“We’re the O’Reily brothers. We run Bridget Street. Ask around. Then come look us up. We could use another fighter.”
“All right.” Doyle watched as Ryan dragged Cyril out of the bar.
The trip to California would have to wait a while.
