TITLE: The Powers, inc. Chapter 5, (aka "My Hangover and over nightmares!")
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: Mah. They're not mine. Joss owns them. If *I* owned the character of Cordelia, I wouldn't have treated her so shabbily and stuffed her comatose body in one of Wolfram and Hart's filing cabinets somewhere, never to be seen again. Oh, sorry... I didn't mean to vent. This is between me and Joss. But while we're at it, DOYLE WAS A DAMN GOOD CHARACTER!!! FEEDBACK: Hell, yes. 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.
Our hitchhiker was sitting in the back seat of our modest little car, using the wing-mirror to reapply a dangerous shade of lipstick. Lorne was standing by the car door, holding it open whilst at the same time, leaning all casual-like against the roof. Me? I had my head in the bushes, puking my very guts out. We were a couple of miles out of our intended destination,Willy's bar, with little or no prospects of moving anywhere anytime soon. "Are you planning on driving me anywhere tonight, or should I just give up right now and start walking in my two hundred dollar shoes?" I think I shouted out something like, "Don't let me be stopping you!", because the next thing I knew, our unexpected guest was leaning over me, her long brown hair forming a pretty little halo around her head. "Ewww..." She ewwed, before brightly adding, "Can you drop me off at Sunnydale High? I'm late for a study group."
"It's nearly four in the morning." Lorne added, helpfully. "Ye-eah. I'm *really* late. Like, several hours late. Any chance you boys could drop me off, now-ish? And possibly take a quick tour around Sobriety- Land afterwards? That'd be neat." "Princess, we're kinda on a life-and-death mission here. That 'walking' idea of yours doesn't sound so bad now." "Walk? I can't *walk*. Cord-.." She went to say something, but quickly amended herself, "Willow Rosenberg does not *walk*." My eyes flicked to her broken-down car a few metres away, and remembered the clearly personalised 'QueenC' license plate. I asked her, "Willow Rosenberg? Is that a Jewish name, now?"
"I don't know. What am I, a rabbi or something? Or whatever the female- version of 'rabbi' is? I am so not walking, do you know how many creepy things are out this late at night?" "It's either that or shutting your yap, princess." "Willow Rosenberg doesn't do that either. What is this life-and-death mission thing, anyway? Is it some college boy 'get drunk' thing? Like a 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas' kind of deal? Because neither of you have even an ounce of Johnny Depp-itude about you, and just because you have the convertible, and possibly a boot-full of narcotics, doesn't mean you can get away with dressing the way that you do... although the drugs would explain a lot..." Quick as a greyhound, she was off. Cordelia Chase, I was soon to learn, was a master of wordmanship. Within ten minutes of knowing her it was painfully obvious that the girl may have had enough cheek in her to break your heart in five words or less, but she was also prone to veering off into vitriolic rantings at the blink of an eyelash. I went about my business, hurling. If I wasn't so wasted, I'd be god smacked. Shaking off the fatigue, I had to pull myself up and look her in the eye. So, I'd completely sobered up now. I was well aware I'd made an all holy show of myself, and there was not a drop of alcohol for a couple of miles that could amend it. Sensing my change in attitude, 'Willow' quietened. "What?" She demanded. "Sunnydale High, was it?"
"Well, *yeah*." She said, annoyed. "Fine. I'm wrecked though, so quiet your yammering to twelve words or less, 'kay princess?" Indignant, she turned away from me and tugged on the car door handle until it finally opened, "Willow Rosenberg does not yam-" "Just get in the car, Queen C."
"Fine." She said absently, not even realising I'd caught her real name. She crawled into the back seat of the car, and I climbed in next to her as Lorne took the wheel. "And in future, don't go making a habit of getting into cars with strange men, okay? I mean, God knows I'm not that fussed, but there are a lot of mean bastards out there, y'know? And from what I've gathered, you ain't always on-the-ball..."
"I am *totally* on the ball! I *live* on the ball! The ball is my frien-" her eyes drifted to Lorne, "Holy Crap! You're a demon!!" Lorne rolled his eyes, "Yep." He said, "We've caught a sharp one, here." And started the car.
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: Mah. They're not mine. Joss owns them. If *I* owned the character of Cordelia, I wouldn't have treated her so shabbily and stuffed her comatose body in one of Wolfram and Hart's filing cabinets somewhere, never to be seen again. Oh, sorry... I didn't mean to vent. This is between me and Joss. But while we're at it, DOYLE WAS A DAMN GOOD CHARACTER!!! FEEDBACK: Hell, yes. 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.
Our hitchhiker was sitting in the back seat of our modest little car, using the wing-mirror to reapply a dangerous shade of lipstick. Lorne was standing by the car door, holding it open whilst at the same time, leaning all casual-like against the roof. Me? I had my head in the bushes, puking my very guts out. We were a couple of miles out of our intended destination,Willy's bar, with little or no prospects of moving anywhere anytime soon. "Are you planning on driving me anywhere tonight, or should I just give up right now and start walking in my two hundred dollar shoes?" I think I shouted out something like, "Don't let me be stopping you!", because the next thing I knew, our unexpected guest was leaning over me, her long brown hair forming a pretty little halo around her head. "Ewww..." She ewwed, before brightly adding, "Can you drop me off at Sunnydale High? I'm late for a study group."
"It's nearly four in the morning." Lorne added, helpfully. "Ye-eah. I'm *really* late. Like, several hours late. Any chance you boys could drop me off, now-ish? And possibly take a quick tour around Sobriety- Land afterwards? That'd be neat." "Princess, we're kinda on a life-and-death mission here. That 'walking' idea of yours doesn't sound so bad now." "Walk? I can't *walk*. Cord-.." She went to say something, but quickly amended herself, "Willow Rosenberg does not *walk*." My eyes flicked to her broken-down car a few metres away, and remembered the clearly personalised 'QueenC' license plate. I asked her, "Willow Rosenberg? Is that a Jewish name, now?"
"I don't know. What am I, a rabbi or something? Or whatever the female- version of 'rabbi' is? I am so not walking, do you know how many creepy things are out this late at night?" "It's either that or shutting your yap, princess." "Willow Rosenberg doesn't do that either. What is this life-and-death mission thing, anyway? Is it some college boy 'get drunk' thing? Like a 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas' kind of deal? Because neither of you have even an ounce of Johnny Depp-itude about you, and just because you have the convertible, and possibly a boot-full of narcotics, doesn't mean you can get away with dressing the way that you do... although the drugs would explain a lot..." Quick as a greyhound, she was off. Cordelia Chase, I was soon to learn, was a master of wordmanship. Within ten minutes of knowing her it was painfully obvious that the girl may have had enough cheek in her to break your heart in five words or less, but she was also prone to veering off into vitriolic rantings at the blink of an eyelash. I went about my business, hurling. If I wasn't so wasted, I'd be god smacked. Shaking off the fatigue, I had to pull myself up and look her in the eye. So, I'd completely sobered up now. I was well aware I'd made an all holy show of myself, and there was not a drop of alcohol for a couple of miles that could amend it. Sensing my change in attitude, 'Willow' quietened. "What?" She demanded. "Sunnydale High, was it?"
"Well, *yeah*." She said, annoyed. "Fine. I'm wrecked though, so quiet your yammering to twelve words or less, 'kay princess?" Indignant, she turned away from me and tugged on the car door handle until it finally opened, "Willow Rosenberg does not yam-" "Just get in the car, Queen C."
"Fine." She said absently, not even realising I'd caught her real name. She crawled into the back seat of the car, and I climbed in next to her as Lorne took the wheel. "And in future, don't go making a habit of getting into cars with strange men, okay? I mean, God knows I'm not that fussed, but there are a lot of mean bastards out there, y'know? And from what I've gathered, you ain't always on-the-ball..."
"I am *totally* on the ball! I *live* on the ball! The ball is my frien-" her eyes drifted to Lorne, "Holy Crap! You're a demon!!" Lorne rolled his eyes, "Yep." He said, "We've caught a sharp one, here." And started the car.