TITLE: The Powers, inc.
AUTHOR: Well, me.
ARCHIVE: I'm an archive whore. Just lemme know, okay? SPOILERS: None, yet. SETTING: Buffy season 3, (pre-ATS). RATING: PG -13. I think. So, don't go crying to mummy if you get offended.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Doyle or Lorne, for I am not Joss. One day, God willing, I will be. And on that day you shall ALL KNEEL BEFORE ME! Mwah ha ha ha!! *chokecoughsplutter* FEEDBACK: Ooo! Yes please! AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is an AU BTVS/ATS crossover, or at least, it *will* be. Maybe. (I dunno. What's with all the questions? I'm not on trial here!) It's a Doyle POV kinda deal, and is basically me rewriting every little detail in the Buffyverse since before Angel left Sunnydale. I'm a busy little beaver. And Glenn Quinn really, really kicked ass, so I hope I'm doing him justice here.
Y'know, twelve months ago if anybody had tried to tell me that the pathway to true spiritual enlightenment could be found in a karaoke bar in one of the more seedier corners of LA, I probably would've laughed in their faces and bought them a pint.
It sounds pretty damn stupid, doesn't it? Finding inner peace at a Karaoke bar? But then again, twelve months ago I hadn't visited the ever-so- lavishly decorated Caritas. Let me tell you something, that place can change your whole perspective on this life. It can turn you completely inside out, man. Well, not in a literal way, because that'd be gross... I mean, in a spiritual kinda way, y'know? It'll make you a better man, or in my particular case, half-man.
Someone once told me that the best way to start a story such as this one is to introduce the main character, and that, (I suppose), would be me. In no way am I the villain of the piece, but just to set the record straight, I'm not exactly being the hero either, y'know what I mean? My name is Allan Francis Doyle, and I will be your protagonist this evening.
It all started, (like every interesting tale should), with copious amounts of alcohol. Every good anecdote I have ever told begins with that sentence, let me tell ya! But unlike the time I woke up on a beach in Llandudno with my pants around my ankles, this story is slightly more sombre, like. I first started visiting the Caritas bar a couple of weeks after my wife, Harriet, had left me. I'm thinking it's a little early in the story to be confusing you all with my tragic backstory, but it's the truth, and it'd be kinda daft to tell you all I was all chipper, when clearly my marriage had just broken up, so... fair play to me, alright?
I spent most weeknights in one bar or another, hunched over a generous glass of single malt something, humming along to whatever pathetic country music was playing in the background. Oh, I was a real social butterfly, alright. To the casual observer there was no way to tell at first glance that I was Irish. Or, for that matter, that I was struggling to come to grips with my newly-discovered half-demon heritage.
Y'see? How's that for a tragic backstory?
I suppose, to the outside world, I could've been just about anybody. I didn't realise it at the time, but I wasn't 'just anybody'. Y'see, what I didn't know at the time was that I was special. Not 'special' as in 'remedial' like, I mean 'special' as in 'I had a purpose'. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I'd discovered the Caritas kinda by accident, whilst desperately trying to escape the grim reality of life through the nearest whisky bottle. I had been wandering the mean streets of LA for a couple of hours, letting my feet carry me to the safety of the nearest brightly lit bar at a pace that, quite frankly, I consider embarrassing. Caritas has the stereotypical uncomfortable, smokey atmosphere you expect from your local boozer, but at the same time it was protected by 'non-violence' sanctuary spell, so pretty much any human, demon, (or anything in the 'either/or' category, now you come to mention it), was protected there. In Caritas, everyone was welcomed.
One particular night, (possibly a Wednesday. But, fecking semantics, eh?), a night like any other, I noticed some nasty demon-looking fellah staring at me. Looking back on it, the absolutely darlin' lemon yellow pinstripe suit the guy was wearing made it pretty impossible not to notice him noticing me, y'know? I may, at that point in time, have had a few outstanding gambling debts that... *ahem*... I had no intention of paying, so when a lad starts eyeing me up in a bar like that I either think 'gay' or I think 'potential bruiser'. I admit that debt collectors rarely have such a modest build, or for that matter rarely wear such unmodest business suits, but if you take into consideration I was sipping a Billy Dee served by a Luctru demon, and the vampire to my right had just offered me a cigarette, I was willing to admit that maybe snap-judgements weren't the way to go here. The only obvious thing about Demon-guy - asides from his natty dress sense - was that he had taken an interest in me. But if he was gay, it wouldn't have surprised me.
His stare was all intense, and - I don't mind telling you - unsettling. Well, most stares are I suppose. Accidently making eye contact was possibly the stupidest thing I could ever have done, because as I have already established, subtlety wasn't much of a theme with this guy.
He maneuvered his way into my peripheral vision and oh-so-casually leaned against the bar. I didn't bother to acknowledge his presence at first, deciding instead that I had no intention of actually getting to know this bloke.
"Well," said the sharply-dressed demon-guy, cheerfully, "chin up, my petite pois! Life could be worse!"
It was then that I realised I already *did*, and I'm not afraid to admit that, under the table, I kicked myself. Hard.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ARCHIVE: I'm an archive whore. Just lemme know, okay? SPOILERS: None, yet. SETTING: Buffy season 3, (pre-ATS). RATING: PG -13. I think. So, don't go crying to mummy if you get offended.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Doyle or Lorne, for I am not Joss. One day, God willing, I will be. And on that day you shall ALL KNEEL BEFORE ME! Mwah ha ha ha!! *chokecoughsplutter* FEEDBACK: Ooo! Yes please! AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is an AU BTVS/ATS crossover, or at least, it *will* be. Maybe. (I dunno. What's with all the questions? I'm not on trial here!) It's a Doyle POV kinda deal, and is basically me rewriting every little detail in the Buffyverse since before Angel left Sunnydale. I'm a busy little beaver. And Glenn Quinn really, really kicked ass, so I hope I'm doing him justice here.
Y'know, twelve months ago if anybody had tried to tell me that the pathway to true spiritual enlightenment could be found in a karaoke bar in one of the more seedier corners of LA, I probably would've laughed in their faces and bought them a pint.
It sounds pretty damn stupid, doesn't it? Finding inner peace at a Karaoke bar? But then again, twelve months ago I hadn't visited the ever-so- lavishly decorated Caritas. Let me tell you something, that place can change your whole perspective on this life. It can turn you completely inside out, man. Well, not in a literal way, because that'd be gross... I mean, in a spiritual kinda way, y'know? It'll make you a better man, or in my particular case, half-man.
Someone once told me that the best way to start a story such as this one is to introduce the main character, and that, (I suppose), would be me. In no way am I the villain of the piece, but just to set the record straight, I'm not exactly being the hero either, y'know what I mean? My name is Allan Francis Doyle, and I will be your protagonist this evening.
It all started, (like every interesting tale should), with copious amounts of alcohol. Every good anecdote I have ever told begins with that sentence, let me tell ya! But unlike the time I woke up on a beach in Llandudno with my pants around my ankles, this story is slightly more sombre, like. I first started visiting the Caritas bar a couple of weeks after my wife, Harriet, had left me. I'm thinking it's a little early in the story to be confusing you all with my tragic backstory, but it's the truth, and it'd be kinda daft to tell you all I was all chipper, when clearly my marriage had just broken up, so... fair play to me, alright?
I spent most weeknights in one bar or another, hunched over a generous glass of single malt something, humming along to whatever pathetic country music was playing in the background. Oh, I was a real social butterfly, alright. To the casual observer there was no way to tell at first glance that I was Irish. Or, for that matter, that I was struggling to come to grips with my newly-discovered half-demon heritage.
Y'see? How's that for a tragic backstory?
I suppose, to the outside world, I could've been just about anybody. I didn't realise it at the time, but I wasn't 'just anybody'. Y'see, what I didn't know at the time was that I was special. Not 'special' as in 'remedial' like, I mean 'special' as in 'I had a purpose'. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I'd discovered the Caritas kinda by accident, whilst desperately trying to escape the grim reality of life through the nearest whisky bottle. I had been wandering the mean streets of LA for a couple of hours, letting my feet carry me to the safety of the nearest brightly lit bar at a pace that, quite frankly, I consider embarrassing. Caritas has the stereotypical uncomfortable, smokey atmosphere you expect from your local boozer, but at the same time it was protected by 'non-violence' sanctuary spell, so pretty much any human, demon, (or anything in the 'either/or' category, now you come to mention it), was protected there. In Caritas, everyone was welcomed.
One particular night, (possibly a Wednesday. But, fecking semantics, eh?), a night like any other, I noticed some nasty demon-looking fellah staring at me. Looking back on it, the absolutely darlin' lemon yellow pinstripe suit the guy was wearing made it pretty impossible not to notice him noticing me, y'know? I may, at that point in time, have had a few outstanding gambling debts that... *ahem*... I had no intention of paying, so when a lad starts eyeing me up in a bar like that I either think 'gay' or I think 'potential bruiser'. I admit that debt collectors rarely have such a modest build, or for that matter rarely wear such unmodest business suits, but if you take into consideration I was sipping a Billy Dee served by a Luctru demon, and the vampire to my right had just offered me a cigarette, I was willing to admit that maybe snap-judgements weren't the way to go here. The only obvious thing about Demon-guy - asides from his natty dress sense - was that he had taken an interest in me. But if he was gay, it wouldn't have surprised me.
His stare was all intense, and - I don't mind telling you - unsettling. Well, most stares are I suppose. Accidently making eye contact was possibly the stupidest thing I could ever have done, because as I have already established, subtlety wasn't much of a theme with this guy.
He maneuvered his way into my peripheral vision and oh-so-casually leaned against the bar. I didn't bother to acknowledge his presence at first, deciding instead that I had no intention of actually getting to know this bloke.
"Well," said the sharply-dressed demon-guy, cheerfully, "chin up, my petite pois! Life could be worse!"
It was then that I realised I already *did*, and I'm not afraid to admit that, under the table, I kicked myself. Hard.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~