TITLE: The Powers, inc. Chapter 4, (AKA "Cor, Almighty")
AUTHOR: Mememememememememe...
ARCHIVE: I'm an archive whore. Just lemme know, okay? SPOILERS: None, yet. I think. I dunno. Maybe there is, but only for Season 3, and if you haven't seen Season 3 of Buffy yet then you're not my friend, and I don't even wanna know you, okay? SETTING: Buffy season 3, (pre-ATS). RATING: PG -13. DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Doyle, Angel, Cordelia or Lorne, for I am not Joss, and Joss is all-knowing. All hail Joss Whedon!! FEEDBACK: Ooo! Yes please! AUTHOR'S NOTES: Still Doyle POV, (as always.). Thank you all for the wonderful feedback everyone, but I don't do this for praise. Nono, I do this for CASH.
The car I ended up driving was an absolute wreck, and Sunnydale, as a town, didn't fair much better. The car's transmission, I'm guessing, was completely shot, and the metallic paintwork was all peeling, like. And the radio? Well, the radio was only tuned into some fruity jazz station, and nobody wants to be stuck with *that* for a two hour car journey. Needless to say, I was starting to wish I hadn't bothered stealing it.
Lorne, for his part, was annoying the crap out of me. It was about 4.30 in the morning, and we both knew that pretty soon the sun would be a- rising, and there would be little or no vamp-like activity beyond that point. It didn't mean he had to keep elbowing me in the stomach and telling me to drive faster.
As we drove across the border into Sunnydale (home of the Great Angelus), Lorne peered around the side view mirror, trying to get a good at the bloke who was correcting the population number beneath the 'Welcome' sign. I remember him saying, "That doesn't bode well."
And it didn't. I was beginning to wish I hadn't even let him talk me into this.
"Okay," I told him, "We haven't got long till we get there, yeah? So I'm running through our itinerary one final time..."
Lorne screwed up his face, "'Itinerary'? Since when did our good friends at the PTB start passing out itineraries? I think I must've missed that memo."
I shrugged, "Hey - all great plans need an itinerary, Lorne-o. Firstly, we need to track down my man Willy, chances are he'll still be at his bar and cowering under the table. We can help ourselves to a couple of drinks while we find out where this vamp-guy is. We have another drink - just for courage, mind - and then head on out to find this guy. Then we can celebrate."
"'Celebrate'? Oh, let me guess, with drinks?
"Ah ha! You did get the memo, then?"
Lorne rolled his eyes, "You are a walking stereotype, mister. And all this drinking isn't good for you."
"I've already got a mother." I said, tersely. Lorne didn't even look a little bit offended, he just rolled his eyes and continued looking out at the landscape. The sky had become a very dark blue, and was starting to get noticeably lighter. "Hey, I'm sorry man." I said, honestly, "but I'm really trying here, okay? I've just found out I'm a puppet to the Powers, y'know? It's bound to make a guy a little testy." I was a puppet to the Powers. How many people could say that, hm?
Lorne wasn't mad, he was... well, he was Lorne. Lorne, apparently, doesn't get mad easily. He does have a lot of sarcasm issues, but other then that he's pretty zen-like.
"I don't think you're really trying very *hard*." He insisted, "I mean, and let's be honest here, the only reason you got into this car in the first place was because you were still slightly hammered. Hence your driving all over the place at ridiculously slow speeds, but I digress... my point is: everytime I say absolutely anything in a raised voice, you clutch your head and whimper pathetically."
"I do not!"
"Give it up, petal. You're HUNGOVER."
I winced, and involuntarily went to grab my head. My own hand has a mind of it's own, the bastard. And how many people could say that, hm?
Lorne just chuckled in a very Lorne-like way, "See what I mean? You drink too much."
"Most girls think it's sexy. All dangerous, like."
"'Sexy'?"
"Yes, tiger?" I couldn't help myself. It was the first time I'd made a decent joke in weeks, and it was worth it to see Lorne's all ready bug- enough eyes bug out that little bit more. He was right though, about the drinking. I'd drunk a whole bottle of scotch in under an hour that night. How many people could say that, hm?
"Pull over." Lorne told me.
"Y'what?"
"Pull over, and park the car. I think I see a hitch hiker." Great. That was all I needed.
I drew the car, (and use the word 'car' in the loosest possibly context here), up to the side of the road, and parked it. Looking around for this hitchhiker-bloke Lorne had apparently spotted. I wasn't in the mood for any axe-murdering types hoping in the back of my brand new convertible, (such as it was), but I was too tired and too hungover to argue with Mr Garden-hue sitting next me.
What happened next, I didn't expect.
Lorne once told me that Sunnydale, being this big Hellmouth and all, attracts demons to Southern California with it's nasty hell-like energies. And that, folks, is why Southern California has such a wide variety of hellbeasts.
Now that I think about it, California also has a wide selection of attractive girls. Huh. So, in Lorne's own theory it would appear that the very same Hellmouth energies that attract the demons of hell also attracts an inordinate amount of hotties to the area. I always knew women were evil.
Ah, wandering away from the plot. There I was, patiently waiting with my swimming head leaning against the steering wheel, while this axe- murdering hitchhiker hoped in the back seat of my car. The twist being, the axe-murdering hitchhiker turned out not to be carrying an axe at all.
Nor, to my knowledge, was she a murderer.
She was a hottie: brunette, a pretty little thing and undoubtedly a cheerleader by trade. According to the license plate on her car a couple of yards back, she goes by the name 'QueenC'.
You've probably never met QueenC, I'd wager. But if you did, you'd remember it, and more to the point - you'd see what I mean about women being evil. I was smitten from the word 'Go!' Far from being your average hitchhiking psycho, she was an absolute stunner in the looks department, and seemed to be quite personable. Well, until she went and opened her mouth:
"Pfft!" Our guest said, with a dismissive flick of her wrist, "What the hell kind of transport is this? I didn't know they even sold cars at Walmart."
"I think I'm going to be sick now." I said. And I was.
ARCHIVE: I'm an archive whore. Just lemme know, okay? SPOILERS: None, yet. I think. I dunno. Maybe there is, but only for Season 3, and if you haven't seen Season 3 of Buffy yet then you're not my friend, and I don't even wanna know you, okay? SETTING: Buffy season 3, (pre-ATS). RATING: PG -13. DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Doyle, Angel, Cordelia or Lorne, for I am not Joss, and Joss is all-knowing. All hail Joss Whedon!! FEEDBACK: Ooo! Yes please! AUTHOR'S NOTES: Still Doyle POV, (as always.). Thank you all for the wonderful feedback everyone, but I don't do this for praise. Nono, I do this for CASH.
The car I ended up driving was an absolute wreck, and Sunnydale, as a town, didn't fair much better. The car's transmission, I'm guessing, was completely shot, and the metallic paintwork was all peeling, like. And the radio? Well, the radio was only tuned into some fruity jazz station, and nobody wants to be stuck with *that* for a two hour car journey. Needless to say, I was starting to wish I hadn't bothered stealing it.
Lorne, for his part, was annoying the crap out of me. It was about 4.30 in the morning, and we both knew that pretty soon the sun would be a- rising, and there would be little or no vamp-like activity beyond that point. It didn't mean he had to keep elbowing me in the stomach and telling me to drive faster.
As we drove across the border into Sunnydale (home of the Great Angelus), Lorne peered around the side view mirror, trying to get a good at the bloke who was correcting the population number beneath the 'Welcome' sign. I remember him saying, "That doesn't bode well."
And it didn't. I was beginning to wish I hadn't even let him talk me into this.
"Okay," I told him, "We haven't got long till we get there, yeah? So I'm running through our itinerary one final time..."
Lorne screwed up his face, "'Itinerary'? Since when did our good friends at the PTB start passing out itineraries? I think I must've missed that memo."
I shrugged, "Hey - all great plans need an itinerary, Lorne-o. Firstly, we need to track down my man Willy, chances are he'll still be at his bar and cowering under the table. We can help ourselves to a couple of drinks while we find out where this vamp-guy is. We have another drink - just for courage, mind - and then head on out to find this guy. Then we can celebrate."
"'Celebrate'? Oh, let me guess, with drinks?
"Ah ha! You did get the memo, then?"
Lorne rolled his eyes, "You are a walking stereotype, mister. And all this drinking isn't good for you."
"I've already got a mother." I said, tersely. Lorne didn't even look a little bit offended, he just rolled his eyes and continued looking out at the landscape. The sky had become a very dark blue, and was starting to get noticeably lighter. "Hey, I'm sorry man." I said, honestly, "but I'm really trying here, okay? I've just found out I'm a puppet to the Powers, y'know? It's bound to make a guy a little testy." I was a puppet to the Powers. How many people could say that, hm?
Lorne wasn't mad, he was... well, he was Lorne. Lorne, apparently, doesn't get mad easily. He does have a lot of sarcasm issues, but other then that he's pretty zen-like.
"I don't think you're really trying very *hard*." He insisted, "I mean, and let's be honest here, the only reason you got into this car in the first place was because you were still slightly hammered. Hence your driving all over the place at ridiculously slow speeds, but I digress... my point is: everytime I say absolutely anything in a raised voice, you clutch your head and whimper pathetically."
"I do not!"
"Give it up, petal. You're HUNGOVER."
I winced, and involuntarily went to grab my head. My own hand has a mind of it's own, the bastard. And how many people could say that, hm?
Lorne just chuckled in a very Lorne-like way, "See what I mean? You drink too much."
"Most girls think it's sexy. All dangerous, like."
"'Sexy'?"
"Yes, tiger?" I couldn't help myself. It was the first time I'd made a decent joke in weeks, and it was worth it to see Lorne's all ready bug- enough eyes bug out that little bit more. He was right though, about the drinking. I'd drunk a whole bottle of scotch in under an hour that night. How many people could say that, hm?
"Pull over." Lorne told me.
"Y'what?"
"Pull over, and park the car. I think I see a hitch hiker." Great. That was all I needed.
I drew the car, (and use the word 'car' in the loosest possibly context here), up to the side of the road, and parked it. Looking around for this hitchhiker-bloke Lorne had apparently spotted. I wasn't in the mood for any axe-murdering types hoping in the back of my brand new convertible, (such as it was), but I was too tired and too hungover to argue with Mr Garden-hue sitting next me.
What happened next, I didn't expect.
Lorne once told me that Sunnydale, being this big Hellmouth and all, attracts demons to Southern California with it's nasty hell-like energies. And that, folks, is why Southern California has such a wide variety of hellbeasts.
Now that I think about it, California also has a wide selection of attractive girls. Huh. So, in Lorne's own theory it would appear that the very same Hellmouth energies that attract the demons of hell also attracts an inordinate amount of hotties to the area. I always knew women were evil.
Ah, wandering away from the plot. There I was, patiently waiting with my swimming head leaning against the steering wheel, while this axe- murdering hitchhiker hoped in the back seat of my car. The twist being, the axe-murdering hitchhiker turned out not to be carrying an axe at all.
Nor, to my knowledge, was she a murderer.
She was a hottie: brunette, a pretty little thing and undoubtedly a cheerleader by trade. According to the license plate on her car a couple of yards back, she goes by the name 'QueenC'.
You've probably never met QueenC, I'd wager. But if you did, you'd remember it, and more to the point - you'd see what I mean about women being evil. I was smitten from the word 'Go!' Far from being your average hitchhiking psycho, she was an absolute stunner in the looks department, and seemed to be quite personable. Well, until she went and opened her mouth:
"Pfft!" Our guest said, with a dismissive flick of her wrist, "What the hell kind of transport is this? I didn't know they even sold cars at Walmart."
"I think I'm going to be sick now." I said. And I was.