Destiny Denied
By Specks, Nina, and Ky
Rating: This chapter is PG-13 (for language) but there will, Ky hastens to assure, be NC-17 in upcoming (and clearly labeled) sections.
Summary: AU, folks... Everyone has a destiny, even though Buffy and Angel have long been denied theirs. A changing of the guard causes history to be rewritten and proves that, in the end, no one (yes, Joss and Marti, we're looking at you!) can alter what is destined to come to pass...
Spoilers: This *is* AU, but in this chapter (one) we'll be making mention of events from AtS season 3 (Namely "Tomorrow," even if it's only to open mock them) and BtVS Seasons 1 and 2, up to and including Becoming I and II.
Disclaimers: Brace yourselves, folks, this may come as a shock to some of you: We are *not* Marti or Joss or David Greenwalt. As a matter of fact, we're not any one(three) in any way involved with the shows, the networks, the production companies, the actors, their agents... yada, yada, yada. We're just some B/A fans, having a little fun with these characters while their owners are off making money with them.
Authors Notes 1: Well, we'd like to thank each other. ::g:: For the sharing of ideas, the encouragement, the beta, the good-natured nagging, and all those *productive* and entertaining chats. We'd like to thank our therapists (read: significant others), who made functioning while trying to combine the wildly divergent ideas of three vastly different people in different states and time zones a possibility. ;o) Specks would like to thank her dialogue guru, who remains shrouded in mystery and wrapped in an enigma, Nina would like to thank everyone who's graciously offered to assist in the search for her missing muse, and Ky would like to thank everyone who's written fic or sent emails that have kept Specks and Nina busy enough to keep from bombarding her with rambling emails on strange tangents, never mind those pesky sines and cosines...
Of course, we sincerely want to thank everyone who's read and encouraged any of our other stories.
(We promise: they're just on hold, not abandoned!!!)
Um, we also feel compelled to thank anyone who's made it past all the notes and to the actual story (Look down! You've made it! You're there!)
The sun hung low on the horizon as Whistler sipped his Corona with lime. Back and forth, back and forth, his eyes followed the path of the volleyball as it arced through the air, batted from one side of the net to the other by opposing teams of scantily clad models. Thoroughly enjoying his role as spectator, he drank in the sight of hard, glistening, exposed bodies, twisting and exerting themselves as they attempted to best each other. Settling comfortably back on the lounge he was occupying, he heaved a contented sigh, closed his eyes and tilted his face up to warming rays of the sun with a small smile. "Mr. Whistler," a deep, rich male voice called his name. With a confused frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, he opened his eyes and noticed an Adonis-like man standing in front of him with a clipboard. 'What happened to the beach? Where are the chicks?' Studying his surroundings, he remembered: The Main Office! He was sitting in the waiting area's plush, purple velvet chair. The highly polished marble floors gleamed with such intensity, he was getting a migraine. With a groan, he glanced at his watch. It had been two decades! Jesus H. Christ! He was SUPPOSED to be on vacation, but no. He was called into the Main Office for a "special assignment." Fucking PTBs always messing up his life. Case in point: his uniform. What asshole thought it was a good idea to dress the PTBs' emissaries up like pimps from Jersey? And, let's face it: half demons that look like pimps from Jersey have a hard time getting laid in *every* dimension. Speaking of which, it had been TWO whole decades! His whole existence seemed like one big cosmic joke... "Mr Whistler?" The man, dressed in tight leather pants and a burgundy velvet shirt that was un-buttoned to expose the smooth, well-muscled chest underneath, looked at him with concern. "The goddess is ready to see you now."
'A secretary?' he wondered idly, 'since when are the secretaries up here male?' The towering man motioned at Whistler to follow him into the inner sanctuaries. The short half-demon stood and removed his lime green hat before entering the twenty-foot tall, cherry, french-doors. He fussed with his pants, trying to smooth out a few decades worth of wrinkles, then gave up and followed the secretary inside. He'd never been this deep inside the Main Office before and was astounded by the opulence. Their shoes clicked loudly on the beautiful earthy-toned marble that covered the floors, walls and ceiling of the seemingly endless hall they walked through. The hallway twisted and turned until it opened up, about 15 minutes later, into a spa-like area complete with a bubbling Jacuzzi tub that was as large as an Olympic sized pool. Beside the Jacuzzi, sprawled on a crème color cashmere chaise, emitting a faint white glow and attended to by a dozen gorgeous men of different size, race and coloring, was a perfectly coiffed female. Her chin-length blond hair looked somewhat off with her dark brown eyes and tanned skin. Still, damp from her recent foray in the Jacuzzi and clothed in a tiny silk robe that clung to her wet curves, she was a vision of eroticism... until she opened her mouth. "WHERE have you BEEN?" The demon clutched his lime green hat and gaped at the deity before him. "Cordelia, what the hell do you want this time?" Not in the least surprised by the outburst, Cordelia merely raised an eyebrow in response. The blond haired, nerdy little half demon muttered curses to himself as he threw his hat on the floor. He really didn't care if she sent him to hell, hell had to be better than working for these God Damn people... "YOU!! You called ME here?" he sputtered, still trying to process the idea that Cordelia Chase had somehow been elevated to a higher being. It wasn't a recent development by any means, but every time he was confronted with the fact, he realized the world as he knew it had tilted sharply, taken a turn for the bizarre. and the more he thought about it the angrier he became. "I've been sitting in your freaking lobby for twenty years waiting for your ROYAL highness! Whatever the hell you called me up here for, forget it. I'm taking my vacation!" "Now, now, my little fashion victim," the glowing girl mocked as she accepted a steaming cup from one of her attendants, "Don't get all growly. There's important work to be done and I've decided you're just the demon for the job," she smiled broadly as she took a sip from the cup in her hand. "I'll get to it as soon as I get back..." "NO. You'll get to it now." The little man tightened his grip on the brim of his hat, trying to control his anger. "Look, I've been on the job, pretty much non-stop, for close to two thousand years. I'm about to burn out. I need a break!" "What you NEED is NOT piss me off," the dark eyed beauty spat. "The Powers have big plans and we need you to contact the Slayer." As the little demon bolted towards the door, she trailed off, amused. Quirking an eyebrow, she watched him tug futilely on the door, "And just what do you think you're doing?" "Leaving. I told you the last time. I'm not helping any more Slayers! You know what happened with the last one."
"That? Pffft," she waved a hand dismissively, "that was nothing. And, don't worry, we're not asking you to help anymore Slayers." "Nothing?" he grumbled. "It wasn't your ribcage she threatened to tear out so you could wear it as a hat, now was it?" "Please, like that's the worst thing she could have said. I know what you were wearing at the time, little man, she had so much to work with." Still tugging at the door, he was dismayed to find it wouldn't budge. Whirling around to face the smirking brunette, he demanded, "Let me out, Cordelia! Open the damn door!" "Who is the Higher Being here? You or me?" Swallowing back a scathing remark, he answered: "You are." "OK then, lose the attitude mister. Hell really is worse than the elevator music in my waiting room, and I have no qualms about sending you there... Now, about that job." Cutting her off, he crossed his arms resolutely, "I'll only do it on one condition: no more Slayers. The last one left a lasting impression. None of them like demons and they like to slay first, ask questions later. That one even has a half-demon in her little group and she still." "She didn't know he was a half-demon, Whistler. Oh Gods. You didn't open your big mouth did you?" "What? No! There wasn't much in the way of chatting; she threatened, I gave her the information and split." "Well," dubiously, she glanced at his face, looking for any signs of deceit. "That's good. I guess. I know you'd hate to have to go back and do that over. Bending time is such a chore, after all." "I'll have you know I've *never* had to go back and do it over. I get things right the first time. Always," he declared, his expression daring her to challenge his claim. Seeing an opening, she quickly agreed, "You always get things right. Which is why you were chosen to do this, and do this you will." Trying to ignore the knot forming in the pit of his stomach, he narrowed his eyes and demanded, "And you *swear* I won't have to deal with any more Slayers?" Her smile growing, she made an 'x' over the left side of her chest, "Cross my heart." With a muffled groan, he followed her to a seat and focused on her plan.
*** "You want me to what?!" "Calm down, Whistler. You dare shout at one of the Powers?"
"Don't try to get righteous on me now, Cordelia. You *lied* to me! I'm not listening to anything else," he bolted out of his chair, but found himself rooted to the spot as she rose regally and towered over him with a wicked smirk gracing her features. "I *never* lied," she asserted. "I never lie." "You said I wouldn't have to deal with the Slayer and now you're telling me different. I know where you come from it's all a little murky with the ethics and morals, but that's a LIE," he raged. "L.A. is hardly *that* bad. And, for the record, I said you wouldn't have to work with "any more" Slayers," she clarified, "and you don't. It's still the same one. No more, I promise." "I think you missed the spirit of my objection, girlie." "And I think *you* missed the part where you don't really have a choice in the matter, Whistler. You work for *me*, you go where I tell you, when I tell you." "I'll go over your head," he threatened. "I'll talk directly to the PTB!" "Little man," she shook her head in mock sympathy, "You actually believe the Powers don't know about this already? That they'd help you? A lower being? You're not even a warrior," she said derisively. "No, but I am the demon of destiny, and I know that this," he gestured dismissively at the flowchart on which she'd outlined his grand 'mission', "this isn't theirs. Even you and the Powers can't change their fate, Princess," he mocked. Scowling, the enraged deity lifted a finger and pointed it directly at Whistler, unleashing a flaming fireball. Still rooted to the spot and unable to run or perform any evasive maneuvers, Whistler only had time to shield his head before he was encompassed in blinding white light. Quickly the blinding white faded to total darkness as he lost consciousness.
Coming to later, Whistler found himself outside of the post office. Standing up and brushing himself off, he nearly jumped when an enormous suitcase appeared mid air. It landed by his feet, and opened on contact. Nestled inside were an Armani suit, several polo shirts and some dress pants. Also contained within the suitcase was a note from Cordelia: Dress well. How do you expect people to treat you seriously when you look like you stepped out of an eighties TV show?! Miami Vice was cancelled decades ago! So dress the part, finish this job, and I'll see about your vacation.
Rating: This chapter is PG-13 (for language) but there will, Ky hastens to assure, be NC-17 in upcoming (and clearly labeled) sections.
Summary: AU, folks... Everyone has a destiny, even though Buffy and Angel have long been denied theirs. A changing of the guard causes history to be rewritten and proves that, in the end, no one (yes, Joss and Marti, we're looking at you!) can alter what is destined to come to pass...
Spoilers: This *is* AU, but in this chapter (one) we'll be making mention of events from AtS season 3 (Namely "Tomorrow," even if it's only to open mock them) and BtVS Seasons 1 and 2, up to and including Becoming I and II.
Disclaimers: Brace yourselves, folks, this may come as a shock to some of you: We are *not* Marti or Joss or David Greenwalt. As a matter of fact, we're not any one(three) in any way involved with the shows, the networks, the production companies, the actors, their agents... yada, yada, yada. We're just some B/A fans, having a little fun with these characters while their owners are off making money with them.
Authors Notes 1: Well, we'd like to thank each other. ::g:: For the sharing of ideas, the encouragement, the beta, the good-natured nagging, and all those *productive* and entertaining chats. We'd like to thank our therapists (read: significant others), who made functioning while trying to combine the wildly divergent ideas of three vastly different people in different states and time zones a possibility. ;o) Specks would like to thank her dialogue guru, who remains shrouded in mystery and wrapped in an enigma, Nina would like to thank everyone who's graciously offered to assist in the search for her missing muse, and Ky would like to thank everyone who's written fic or sent emails that have kept Specks and Nina busy enough to keep from bombarding her with rambling emails on strange tangents, never mind those pesky sines and cosines...
Of course, we sincerely want to thank everyone who's read and encouraged any of our other stories.
(We promise: they're just on hold, not abandoned!!!)
Um, we also feel compelled to thank anyone who's made it past all the notes and to the actual story (Look down! You've made it! You're there!)
The sun hung low on the horizon as Whistler sipped his Corona with lime. Back and forth, back and forth, his eyes followed the path of the volleyball as it arced through the air, batted from one side of the net to the other by opposing teams of scantily clad models. Thoroughly enjoying his role as spectator, he drank in the sight of hard, glistening, exposed bodies, twisting and exerting themselves as they attempted to best each other. Settling comfortably back on the lounge he was occupying, he heaved a contented sigh, closed his eyes and tilted his face up to warming rays of the sun with a small smile. "Mr. Whistler," a deep, rich male voice called his name. With a confused frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, he opened his eyes and noticed an Adonis-like man standing in front of him with a clipboard. 'What happened to the beach? Where are the chicks?' Studying his surroundings, he remembered: The Main Office! He was sitting in the waiting area's plush, purple velvet chair. The highly polished marble floors gleamed with such intensity, he was getting a migraine. With a groan, he glanced at his watch. It had been two decades! Jesus H. Christ! He was SUPPOSED to be on vacation, but no. He was called into the Main Office for a "special assignment." Fucking PTBs always messing up his life. Case in point: his uniform. What asshole thought it was a good idea to dress the PTBs' emissaries up like pimps from Jersey? And, let's face it: half demons that look like pimps from Jersey have a hard time getting laid in *every* dimension. Speaking of which, it had been TWO whole decades! His whole existence seemed like one big cosmic joke... "Mr Whistler?" The man, dressed in tight leather pants and a burgundy velvet shirt that was un-buttoned to expose the smooth, well-muscled chest underneath, looked at him with concern. "The goddess is ready to see you now."
'A secretary?' he wondered idly, 'since when are the secretaries up here male?' The towering man motioned at Whistler to follow him into the inner sanctuaries. The short half-demon stood and removed his lime green hat before entering the twenty-foot tall, cherry, french-doors. He fussed with his pants, trying to smooth out a few decades worth of wrinkles, then gave up and followed the secretary inside. He'd never been this deep inside the Main Office before and was astounded by the opulence. Their shoes clicked loudly on the beautiful earthy-toned marble that covered the floors, walls and ceiling of the seemingly endless hall they walked through. The hallway twisted and turned until it opened up, about 15 minutes later, into a spa-like area complete with a bubbling Jacuzzi tub that was as large as an Olympic sized pool. Beside the Jacuzzi, sprawled on a crème color cashmere chaise, emitting a faint white glow and attended to by a dozen gorgeous men of different size, race and coloring, was a perfectly coiffed female. Her chin-length blond hair looked somewhat off with her dark brown eyes and tanned skin. Still, damp from her recent foray in the Jacuzzi and clothed in a tiny silk robe that clung to her wet curves, she was a vision of eroticism... until she opened her mouth. "WHERE have you BEEN?" The demon clutched his lime green hat and gaped at the deity before him. "Cordelia, what the hell do you want this time?" Not in the least surprised by the outburst, Cordelia merely raised an eyebrow in response. The blond haired, nerdy little half demon muttered curses to himself as he threw his hat on the floor. He really didn't care if she sent him to hell, hell had to be better than working for these God Damn people... "YOU!! You called ME here?" he sputtered, still trying to process the idea that Cordelia Chase had somehow been elevated to a higher being. It wasn't a recent development by any means, but every time he was confronted with the fact, he realized the world as he knew it had tilted sharply, taken a turn for the bizarre. and the more he thought about it the angrier he became. "I've been sitting in your freaking lobby for twenty years waiting for your ROYAL highness! Whatever the hell you called me up here for, forget it. I'm taking my vacation!" "Now, now, my little fashion victim," the glowing girl mocked as she accepted a steaming cup from one of her attendants, "Don't get all growly. There's important work to be done and I've decided you're just the demon for the job," she smiled broadly as she took a sip from the cup in her hand. "I'll get to it as soon as I get back..." "NO. You'll get to it now." The little man tightened his grip on the brim of his hat, trying to control his anger. "Look, I've been on the job, pretty much non-stop, for close to two thousand years. I'm about to burn out. I need a break!" "What you NEED is NOT piss me off," the dark eyed beauty spat. "The Powers have big plans and we need you to contact the Slayer." As the little demon bolted towards the door, she trailed off, amused. Quirking an eyebrow, she watched him tug futilely on the door, "And just what do you think you're doing?" "Leaving. I told you the last time. I'm not helping any more Slayers! You know what happened with the last one."
"That? Pffft," she waved a hand dismissively, "that was nothing. And, don't worry, we're not asking you to help anymore Slayers." "Nothing?" he grumbled. "It wasn't your ribcage she threatened to tear out so you could wear it as a hat, now was it?" "Please, like that's the worst thing she could have said. I know what you were wearing at the time, little man, she had so much to work with." Still tugging at the door, he was dismayed to find it wouldn't budge. Whirling around to face the smirking brunette, he demanded, "Let me out, Cordelia! Open the damn door!" "Who is the Higher Being here? You or me?" Swallowing back a scathing remark, he answered: "You are." "OK then, lose the attitude mister. Hell really is worse than the elevator music in my waiting room, and I have no qualms about sending you there... Now, about that job." Cutting her off, he crossed his arms resolutely, "I'll only do it on one condition: no more Slayers. The last one left a lasting impression. None of them like demons and they like to slay first, ask questions later. That one even has a half-demon in her little group and she still." "She didn't know he was a half-demon, Whistler. Oh Gods. You didn't open your big mouth did you?" "What? No! There wasn't much in the way of chatting; she threatened, I gave her the information and split." "Well," dubiously, she glanced at his face, looking for any signs of deceit. "That's good. I guess. I know you'd hate to have to go back and do that over. Bending time is such a chore, after all." "I'll have you know I've *never* had to go back and do it over. I get things right the first time. Always," he declared, his expression daring her to challenge his claim. Seeing an opening, she quickly agreed, "You always get things right. Which is why you were chosen to do this, and do this you will." Trying to ignore the knot forming in the pit of his stomach, he narrowed his eyes and demanded, "And you *swear* I won't have to deal with any more Slayers?" Her smile growing, she made an 'x' over the left side of her chest, "Cross my heart." With a muffled groan, he followed her to a seat and focused on her plan.
*** "You want me to what?!" "Calm down, Whistler. You dare shout at one of the Powers?"
"Don't try to get righteous on me now, Cordelia. You *lied* to me! I'm not listening to anything else," he bolted out of his chair, but found himself rooted to the spot as she rose regally and towered over him with a wicked smirk gracing her features. "I *never* lied," she asserted. "I never lie." "You said I wouldn't have to deal with the Slayer and now you're telling me different. I know where you come from it's all a little murky with the ethics and morals, but that's a LIE," he raged. "L.A. is hardly *that* bad. And, for the record, I said you wouldn't have to work with "any more" Slayers," she clarified, "and you don't. It's still the same one. No more, I promise." "I think you missed the spirit of my objection, girlie." "And I think *you* missed the part where you don't really have a choice in the matter, Whistler. You work for *me*, you go where I tell you, when I tell you." "I'll go over your head," he threatened. "I'll talk directly to the PTB!" "Little man," she shook her head in mock sympathy, "You actually believe the Powers don't know about this already? That they'd help you? A lower being? You're not even a warrior," she said derisively. "No, but I am the demon of destiny, and I know that this," he gestured dismissively at the flowchart on which she'd outlined his grand 'mission', "this isn't theirs. Even you and the Powers can't change their fate, Princess," he mocked. Scowling, the enraged deity lifted a finger and pointed it directly at Whistler, unleashing a flaming fireball. Still rooted to the spot and unable to run or perform any evasive maneuvers, Whistler only had time to shield his head before he was encompassed in blinding white light. Quickly the blinding white faded to total darkness as he lost consciousness.
Coming to later, Whistler found himself outside of the post office. Standing up and brushing himself off, he nearly jumped when an enormous suitcase appeared mid air. It landed by his feet, and opened on contact. Nestled inside were an Armani suit, several polo shirts and some dress pants. Also contained within the suitcase was a note from Cordelia: Dress well. How do you expect people to treat you seriously when you look like you stepped out of an eighties TV show?! Miami Vice was cancelled decades ago! So dress the part, finish this job, and I'll see about your vacation.
