A Little Bit of Knowledge by Dolores Labouchere
Sequel to More than This

The rusty, blue flap of the mailbox creaked as Oz pushed the letter past it. There was a soft slap as the envelope landed on the pile of mail at the bottom of the metal container. Letting out a small sigh, Oz paused slightly, staring at the mailbox, before turning sharply and walking off down the street, melting into the crowds on the busy streets of LA.

On the opposite side of the road, another figure had reason to pause. As Oz vanished into the sea of people, over his brown paper bags full of shopping Doyle raised an eyebrow as he caught a glimpse of a face he was sure he’d seen before. But then the face was gone, and Doyle couldn’t be certain it was that Oz fella. He shrugged dismissively, but filed away the information for later.

***

The natural calm of the morning was shattered by the very unnatural, and very irritating, repeating tone of an electric alarm clock. Grey light filtered through thin curtains to dimly illuminate a bedroom, where the alarm clock with its devil-red display was emitting its own version of the dawn chorus. Clothes and paper and books covered most of the floor, and posters most of the walls. There was a double bed dominating one corner, and as the tone continued, movement could be seen beneath its covers. Eventually a hand slid out from underneath the blankets to hit the alarm clock repeatedly until the tone stopped. Its task accomplished, the hand flopped and lay still, over the side of the bed.

There was little more movement for about ten minutes, and then Devon MacLeish finally accepted his body’s reluctant admission that it was awake. Rubbing his eyes, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, then got up and visited the bathroom, his usual first port of call in the morning. He stared in the mirror of the medicine cabinet as he peed, smirking a little as he looked at his hair, all spiky and mussed. Once he finished he moved back to his bedroom and found a pair of clean shorts in the open top drawer of his chest of drawers and pulled them on.

Absently scratching his head, the now boxer-clad singer wandered downstairs to his kitchen. The house was empty, his mom having gone to her job in the hospital, and his dad still on his business trip. He grabbed the handle of the fridge and pulled out a carton of juice, from which he took a swig. Wiping away the dribble that trickled down his chin he looked around the room. Propped up against the bowl of fruit at the centre of the kitchen table were a couple of pieces of mail addressed to him. Putting the carton down he grabbed and examined them. One was a piece of junk advertising a mail-order music company (quickly thrown over his shoulder) and the other…

Devon was shaken out of his morning daze by the writing on the front. It was unmistakably that of Oz, the spiky lettering matching his best friend’s hairstyle. Since he’d left without a word nearly two weeks ago, no-one had hear from Oz, not Willow, not Oz’s folks, not Devon. Until now. Devon tore open the envelope and read the short note.

“Hey Dev,

I don’t think I’m coming back. At least, not for a while. Things got difficult for reasons that can’t say. So, I left. Sorry I didn’t speak to you; I just couldn’t.

I’m working in a bar just now, ‘til I can get enough cash together to travel. I’ll send you a card every once in a while, let you know I’m still alive. Tell my mom and dad I wrote you, and apologise to the band. But don’t tell Willow. I don’t want her trying to find me.

Thanks,
Oz.”

Devon picked up the discarded envelope and looked at the postmark. Los Angeles. /Okay, Willow might not get to go find him, but he’d said nothing about nobody else/.

***

“God, you’d think he’d at least take the time to look up his old friends. I mean, rude much?”

“Cordelia, we don’t know that it was Oz. Doyle might have been mistaken.” Angel sat on the edge of the reception desk and looked at Doyle. “Are you sure it was Oz?”

“Fairly. But, even if it was, he didn’t seem to be in any trouble. So, there ain’t nothin’ to be worried about, is there?”

“When did you see him anyway?” Cordelia asked, looking up from the nail polish she had been busy applying.

“Couple of days ago, it slipped me mind.”

“You see one of our old friends from Sunnydale and it doesn’t occur to you to tell us earlier. How inconsiderate can you be?”

“Hey, I can’t be forgetful?”

“No. We let you away with forgetting something like this, and the next thing you know you’ll be all, ‘Oops, sorry, forgot to tell Angel that that demon barfs acid. Still, he’ll heal eventually.’” Cordelia paused, mid-tirade, to squeak in disgust “And now I’ve got some $20 nail polish on my fingers. Thank you so much.”

With that, she stalked off to the restroom to wash it off. Angel smiled after her then turned to Doyle. “Well, if you see him again, let us know. Or better yet, bring him back here.” The vampire then moved back into his office and shut the door.

Doyle rolled his eyes. “Teaches me to be observant, I tell ya.”

***

Adjusting the duffel bag on his shoulder to ease the strain on his left arm, Devon walked towards the architectural nightmare that was Sunnydale’s bus depot. One of those sixties concrete monstrosities that must have seemed so modern at the time they were built, but not forty years later were grey carbuncles dotted about an otherwise picturesque town. For its part, the depot managed to make an otherwise pretty part of town that bit more grubby and unappealing.

Not that the myopic town planners or the architectural merit (or lack thereof) of the depot really occupied Devon’s thoughts as he made his way there. Oz, on the other hand, did. Before now, he hadn’t really considered why Oz had left. The guitarist hadn’t turned up for practice a couple of times, which wasn’t really that out of the ordinary, and it had only been when Willow had phoned Devon to ask if the singer had heard from her boyfriend that Devon became aware that his friend had left properly. And, even though Willow had made some dark references to their having sort of split up and Oz having been unfaithful - which didn’t sound at all like Oz – Devon hadn’t worried really. Oz was prone to driving of in his van for a couple of days when he had something he needed to sort out in his head, and despite Willow’s assertion that this was *serious* (before promptly bursting into tears and hanging up) Devon had fully expecting his buddy to roar back into town after a week or so, hopefully with a half dozen new songs to boot.

Certainly there was a nagging doubt as that first week had slowly progressed to two, but nothing that had really occupied his thoughts.

Which made Devon feel guilty – Oz had seemed distracted and edgy at the last couple of practices he’d attended, and Devon hadn’t said anything, believing his friend would ask if he needed advice. Perhaps if he’d said something, perhaps if he’d been around more often… Damn, he used to be so good at judging when Oz needed a shoulder. But he’d lost his touch over the past year or two, as he and Oz had drifted apart. Another thing to feel guilty about. But Oz had changed. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why, other than the fact that he was going out with Willow. There was something unsaid, and it put a barrier in their friendship that had never been there before.

Devon kicked at an empty Pepsi can that lay on the sidewalk as anger bubbled up inside him. Christ, they’d been friends since, what, first grade? He *should* have realised something was up. He wished Oz had said something. Whatever it was, Devon would have stood by his friend. Would have helped if he could. Which brought him to his other nagging doubt. That *he* had been the reason for Oz’s departure. It was something he had done or said. It was probably just irrational, but, still, there was a little part of him that feared it.

He was still lost in thought when he bumped into a girl walking in the other direction.

“Ow! That was very painful!”

“Uh, sorry. Didn’t see you there.” Devon looked at the girl. She was familiar somehow. As he studied her she put her hands on her hips and gave him an angry glare.

“You were incredibly rude, you know. I could have been horribly injured by your boorish carelessness. Didn’t you mother teach you any manners? I mean…”

“Don’t you date Xander Harris?”

“What do you know about Xander?” Anya eyed him suspiciously.

“I’m a friend of Oz’s. Y’know, the short silent one he hangs around with.”

She pursed her lips. “Humph. You’re one of *his* friends? That just makes things worse. You do know he tried to use the excuse of being a werewolf at the time to justify cheating on Willow with another girl? I’ve heard some lame excuses in my time – and I’ve been around, let me tell you – but that…”

“What did you say Oz was?”

“A bastard. Well, I didn’t say that, but that’s what he is.”

“No, the other thing.”

“A pig? Which actually is an insult to pigs, because they wouldn’t think up such pathetic excuses.”

“No, no. You said he was a werewolf.”

“Well, duh. You mean that you didn’t know?”

“You’re crazy. Werewolves aren’t real.”

“Oh, wake up. This town crawls with demons and vampires and werewolves.”

More to himself than Anya, Devon breathed, “A werewolf?”

Suddenly Anya seemed a little panicked by his surprise at the news. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that. Don’t tell Xander I told you that, he’ll only shout at me.”

His brain struggling to cope with the concept that his best friend was also partially man’s best friend, Devon stumbled onwards dimly aware that now he *really* had to speak to Oz. Anya called after him indignantly, “Well, goodbye then. Be rude *again*.” When he didn’t respond, she rolled her eyes, turned on her heel and strode off.

His head still spinning, Devon got to the depot, got on an LA bus, and wondered just what the hell else Oz hadn’t told him.

***

Devon was tired, so very tired. However, his goal was finally in sight, much to the relief of his aching shoulder and exhausted feet.

His plan before he had met that chick of Xander’s – Annie, or something – had been to just go to as many bars as it took to figure out which one Oz was working in. But then, LA was enormous, and it occurred to him on the bus that if he was really going to find Oz before doomsday he needed to speak to someone in LA who might know where Oz had got to. It had taken three hours of trudging around LA to find the place again, but here he was outside the offices that Cordy worked in. With that Irish guy, Doyle – and in the midst of his concern for Oz a part of him was very glad he was going to bump into him again. Briefly he wondered if Cordy was dating Doyle, and a flicker of jealousy shot through him. He dismissed it as unimportant given the situation, but if he had stopped to consider who he was jealous of, the answer might have surprised him.

He entered the building and knocked on the door of the offices. It was just after nine, so he wasn’t sure anyone would be there. But it was answered, by Doyle. The door swung open, and the Irishman’s eyebrows went up in surprise.

“Dev! Come in! What brings you here?”

The singer was ushered in to the office. He looked about for Cordy, but she was nowhere to be seen. Doyle appeared to be the only one there. He turned to the other man and said, “Uh, I’m looking for Oz.”

“Oz? Why?”

Ignoring Doyle, Devon looked about the office, then decided to ask a few questions of his own. “What is it you do here?”

“Here? Well, we, uh, investigate stuff.”

“What sort of stuff?”

Doyle was taken off guard. “Well, y’know, t’ings that other people don’t do.”

“Such as?”

“T’ings. Stalkers and… t’ings.” Doyle looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Devon said nothing for a moment, looking to be deep in thought, wrestling about something in his mind. He appeared to come to a decision.

“Is Oz a werewolf?”

Doyle blinked a few times. Slowly, he said, “Yes…”

“Oh, man,” said Devon, before falling into one of the chairs.

Doyle moved closer to him. “I’m guessin’ you just found out.” Devon dumbly nodded. “I see. Well, y’know, it’s not like he’s a bad person for it. Just a few nights o’ the month he’s out a’ sorts.”

“Is that why he left?”

“He’s left Sunnydale?”

“You didn’t know?” Doyle shook his head. “Yeah, he’s left, about two weeks ago. I don’t know why. But I’m worried about him, so I’m trying to track him down. But LA’s so big; I was hoping you’d know where he is… but I guess you don’t.”

“Well, actually I saw him a few days back.”

Devon looked up sharply. “I thought you said you didn’t know he’d left – and where?”

“I wasn’t sure it was him. And a little way away. I can take you there if you like.”

The singer jumped to his feet and gave a surprised Doyle a bear hug. “That’s great. I really want… I really *need* to talk to him.” Without really thinking about it, Doyle hugged back, and they stayed in the embrace for a few seconds, before both sheepishly separated.

After a pregnant pause, Devon spoke first, “So, uh, can we go now?”

Doyle adopted an apologetic expression. “Sorry, but not really. I need to stay in the office – I’m expectin’ an important call. And it’s getting’ a bit late to go searchin’ at this hour. I only saw him in the street, so I wouldn’t know where he’s livin’. But we can go lookin’ tomorra. If you like.”

A little crestfallen, Devon nodded. “Where’s Cordy?”

“At home, I assume. Or maybe out nobbin’ wit’ the showbiz hobs.”

“Oh.”

“Why? You need to speak to her too?”

“Not really. But I need somewhere to stay, I was hoping she’d let me crash.”

“No problems. You can stay at mine.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“No trouble. I just need to wait on Angel calling to let me know he’s made contact wit’ our demon informer…” Doyle realised what he’d just said, “…and, uh…”

Devon gave him a weary look. “I don’t want to know. Not today.”

“Good. Very good idea.”

By the time Angel called to confirm he had found their informer and had retrieved the information he required 15 minutes later, Devon was dozing in the chair. As Doyle returned the receiver to the cradle, he looked around to see Devon sleepily looking back at him, having been woken by the telephone’s ringing.

“Can we do that go to you house and sleep thing now?”

Doyle nodded, and grabbed his leather jacket.

***

Almost two hours later, Doyle looked down for the second time at the sight of Devon sleeping on a sofa. He realised he liked to see the lad like this, looking sweet and peaceful, unaware of the half-demon’s stare. He felt a little dirty, like he was somehow sick for enjoying it, though he told himself that that was silly, that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Resisting the urge to kiss Devon on the forehead – he didn’t want to freak the kid out should he wake up – Doyle tore his gaze away, and went into his own bedroom.

As he shut his eyes, he wondered if Devon would react the same way at the sight of a sleeping Doyle. Probably not. But not *definitely* not…

.End
Read the sequel A Little Bit of Knowledge