Author: Meltha
Rating: FRM (fan-rated mature)
Feedback: Yes, thank you. Meltha
Spoilers: For Buffy's "The Freshman" and Angel's "City of...">
Distribution: Fanfiction.net and the Bunny Warren. If you're interested, please let me know.
Summary: Doyle really hadn’t wanted to stop in Oxnard, but by the time he left, he was very glad he had.
Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Mutant Enemy, a wonderfully creative company whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
Author Note: Written for the Doyle round at maleslashminis for allyndra who requested Doyle/Xander, banter, a tacky shirt, uncertainty, no demon-attraction, and no unhappy ending. I took a bit of license with the banter…

Amateur night

Doyle really hadn’t wanted to stop in Oxnard. For one thing, the name didn’t sound the least bit appealing and he suspected it might be American slang for naughty bits on dray animals. For another, he had his mission he needed to accomplish, and he was due in L.A. pronto to deal with a certain lovelorn vampire on the shaky side of sanity. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to that job, truth be told, although the guy in question had been really rather cute in his vision, though the mind-numbing migraine accompanying it had succeeded in completely taking the edge off any interest he had in him.

Still, thanks to forgetting to fill his gas tank and deciding he’d had enough for one lousy day and that vampire-boy would be able to wait one more sunset for the arrival of his own personal CuChulain in shining armor, there he was, stuck in Oxnard, booked in a fleabag motel, and bored out of his mind. He had just about decided to turn in for the night even if it was only nine o’clock when the flickering neon lights on the other side of the blinds hanging in his room’s only window caught his attention. Mildly curious, he peeked between the slats and was greeted with the gaudy display of the Fabulous Ladies Nightclub directly across the street. He raised an eyebrow.

“Eh, why not?” he said to the empty room. “Better than sittin’ here jawin’ to myself, yeah?”

He locked the motel room door behind him, then crossed the four lane road, and stared up at the advertisements on the outside of the building, touting the entertainment. It turned out that the Fabulous Ladies in question were, in fact, very “fabulous” but they weren’t exactly ladies… or actually biologically female. A transvestite strip club? Yet another thing Doyle hadn’t counted on, and to be truthful he wasn’t certain this was exactly his cup of tea, but with a shrug as he remembered absolutely nothing was on telly tonight, he paid the cover charge and walked in.

The scenery was drab and predictable: a lot of smoke, a rundown bar, lots of little tables at which sat men in various states of inebriation ranging from moderately tipsy to comatose, and pink-gelled lights illuminating a tacky little stage. Doyle wandered to the bar and decided Guinness was out of the question here. Most likely if it was even available his darling would be nigh on unrecognizable in a dive like this.

He ordered an ordinary American beer, then plopped himself at one of the tables and watched the end of the previous dancer’s act, which had culminated in a half-hearted hip shake before he stomped off in a pair of nicked silver stilettos, an expression of deep boredom on his features that exactly mirrored Doyle’s own—with the exception of the heavy application of Avon. Doyle sipped the beer and made a face. He couldn’t understand how Americans drank this stuff. Just then, a spotlight blazed and what had to be the MC took center stage.

“Okay, folks,” he said, trepidation coloring his words. “Lenny the Lover’s out sick with the runs, so we got a newbie for you tonight.”

“Woooo!” yelled a very drunk man who was incongruously wearing a lopsided sequined pink and purple bow on his head that didn’t match his plaid shirt in the least.

“I hope they’re drunk enough,” the MC muttered under his breath, but Doyle just caught it. “So, for one night only, I present to you the sensual, the amazing, the sugardrop of Sunnydale…”

“You said you wouldn’t give any details that might identify me!” yelped a voice backstage.

“Oh, can it, kid! Here’s Xander freakin’ Harris, the kid who washes the dishes,” he said in disgust as he exited, leaving the stage vacant.

The first techno strains of “Baby, Don’t Hurt Me” pulsed through the joint, and Doyle couldn’t help leaning forward a little in interest. The curtain, the traditionally tacky strands of tinsel affair, vibrated back and forth a little, suggesting there was some sort of struggle taking place backstage, then finally something emerged: a sneaker.

Doyle had been half-expecting the whole thing to be a set-up and a queen with a lot of experience behind him in many, many ways to come out, but no, this kid had obviously just been plucked from the aforementioned kitchens. Someone had taken the time to inexpertly apply a little lipstick and blush, but otherwise he looked like any post-high school California boy… albeit, Doyle nodded approvingly, with great taste in shirts. That Hawaiian palm tree and parrot pattern was a pure classic, no mistake, rumpled and stuffed into a pair of worn jeans.

Xander (and wasn’t that an odd name for an American?) shuffled a few steps forward, looking like a crazy stalker paparazzo was about to pop out of the shadows and take his picture for his class reunion at any moment, blind terror writ large on his face. A few cat calls started in the back, which had roughly the same effect on him as an air raid siren. Doyle frowned. This was moving from vaguely funny to disturbing. Of course, he was also aware the boy obviously wouldn’t be in this position if he didn’t need the money, and badly at that. Frankly, he’d bail the kid out himself at this point if he could, but he was significantly low in funds himself. The would-be stripper, still in a state of deepest embarrassment, happened to shift his gaze towards Doyle, and the Irishman quickly realized there was something he could do to help.

Coyly, Doyle smiled up at him, not quite a leer, but an appreciative look. He didn’t really have anything to be ashamed of, this one: beautiful dark eyes, a mop of dark hair that his fingers were itching to card through, a strong chest, and long, lean legs. Xander was caught by the other man’s gaze, still looking rather like a deer in headlights, and Doyle gave him a slow, deliberate wink. Xander’s eyes widened, and Doyle could tell, with a strange pang around his heart, that it was in surprise that someone might find him attractive.

“You’re beautiful,” he mouthed at him, letting the edge of his tongue wet his lips a little.

“Me?” he said back, his expression disbelieving.

Doyle nodded at him, working the same smile that had made both the lads and lasses fall at his feet back home, at least when he was lucky. It turned out tonight he was most definitely lucky.

“Show me more, yeah?” he said, being sure his lips formed the words clearly, willing him to pretend no one else was in the room, being sure not to break eye contact.

To his surprise, the trick worked, and Doyle saw his hand trace upwards over the buttons of his shirt, then slowly undo the top one. It was as though the horrible, pulsing music was gone, and somehow, in spite of the rapidly escalating appreciative shouts, there didn’t seem to be any sound. The rest quietly faded away, and Doyle nodded at him again encouragingly. Button after button slipped through its hole, leaving the shirt hanging on him, then with a shudder he could see, he slipped if from his shoulders, leaving the upper half of him nothing but bare skin.

Doyle let a soft gasp break from him as he took in the tanned expanse of flesh, the firm muscles of chest and abdomen. He’d been right about this one. He was utterly delicious.

“Yeah,” he said to him. “Just like that, love.”

Xander smiled at him, and it made his face almost unbelievably handsome. He turned around, starting to get into a bit now that he’d made the first steps and realized he wasn’t about to be laughed at cruelly. Doyle watched as his hands were obviously working the clasp of his buckle, then pulled the leather through the loops slowly, and yeah, he could tell it now, sensually. The belt went the way of his shirt, and then his shoes were roughly toed off, leaving his feet bare. He turned around once more, his eyes immediately seeking out Doyle’s again.

“I’ve got you,” he thought as he kissed the air in Xander’s direction, desire radiating towards him in waves. “Just keep on with what you’re doing; I’m not gonna let you fall.”

Xander was turning a lovely shade of pink under that warm California tan, and the rise and fall of his chest showed his breath coming in quick pants. Almost as though mesmerized, his fingers undid the button of his jeans, then slowly slid down the zip.

“Yeah!” Doyle crowed, loud enough to be heard over the raucous calls of the others. “That’s it! Off, darlin’, get ‘em off!”

The jeans pooled around his feet a moment later, then were summarily kicked into the pile with the rest of his clothes, leaving Xander wearing only a pair of boxer shorts patterned with the Superman symbol. For one terrible second, Doyle was afraid this might garner him some guffaws of laughter, but instead the patrons increased their cheering. By now, bills were starting to litter the floor, and the bow-bedecked man actually came close enough to stick a few dollars into Xander’s waistband, which made him laugh, and the sound was beautiful, thick, delightful music.

As the cheering reached a crescendo, Xander sought Doyle’s face in the crowd again, then, with a wink so quick it went unnoticed by all but the half-demon, he turned once more and let the boxers fall, baring an amazingly beautiful, very firm pair of buttocks to the crowd, who whooped appreciatively as he dashed offstage once more, his shyness returning. The MC quickly scooped down to collect the money that was still pelting from all sides, but Doyle was intent on something else. He unobtrusively made his way backstage, only to find Xander hurriedly dressing to one side as the rest of the dancers nodded approvingly.

“You did just fine, kid,” said a very tall one in a red dress, looking unnervingly like Jessica Rabbit. “I’m sure you’ve got enough to cover the damages on your car.”

“Uh, thanks,” he said, and the voice was exactly what Doyle had expected, sweet and nervous, and he was all but drunk off it.

Just then, Xander turned in his direction, and he saw a smile light up his face again.

“Hey, you,” Xander said, coming to him. “Thanks, I… you really helped out there.”

“No trouble at all,” he said, then reached up and ran a finger softly down his face. “What I said’s true. You’re a beauty, you are. Never let anyone tell you different.”

Xander’s eyes fell shut at the caress, and taking advantage of the moment, Doyle pressed his mouth against his lips, a soft, hot kiss that lasted just a few moments, then pulled back. He thought for a moment of inviting him back to his motel room, of how it would be to touch that amazing body, bring smiles to his lips over and over until the young man would never again forget how desirable he was, of what it would feel like to have him beneath him, above him, wrapped around him. The words were starting to form on his lips, but they died there. Doyle knew that wasn’t a good idea, not when he’d just have to leave in the morning. Instead, he gave him a smile, kissed Xander’s hand cheekily, then left. Both had lovely dreams that night.