Rating: M (for implied sexual acts)

Characters: Wendy Watson (both versions), The Middleman (both versions), plus assorted cast

Word Count: 792

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to these characters, the show or the comic and I am not being paid for this.

Summary: Sometimes, it's not only the bad guys who reap the whirlwind.

Spoilers: Possible spoilers in later chapters for Doomsday.

Setting: Post Palindrome. May also be Post-Doomsday.

Song: Bells for Her (Tori Amos, Under the Pink)

Quote: "In revenge and in love, woman is more barbarous than man." - Friedrich Nietzsche
"Revenge is a dish best served cold." (multiple sources)

Author's Note: This began life as yet another song drabble, but had the potential for a longer story, so I'm letting it run. Fair warning: I am completely pantsing this, so I have no defined plot as of yet. Updates will likely be slow and I haven't an ultimate story ending in mind as of yet, so I can't guarantee an HEA for everyone. But I do hate emotionally unsatisfying endings, so I can semi-guarantee that, at least.

BEST SERVED COLD

Infamouse Fashion House in a parallel universe that's a lot less evil than it used to be
9:00 p.m.
Revenge Time

Control. Life was all about control. You couldn't allow anyone to make the least crack in it or the world started falling apart around your ears. Wendy Watson had learned that lesson after her father had disappeared and had made it the focus of her life ever since. So far, it was the one lesson which had never failed her. Perhaps the only lesson.

Which was why she was in bed with a beardless boyish incubus. Sometimes, control had a price. But better a price than a cost.

Rolling onto her side, she walked her fingers up Trevor's chest. With each touch, he flinched as if she were painting his skin with acid. Not far off the mark. A vial of holy water a day kept the incubi away, or at least kept them from dining on your soul. She smiled at his reaction. "So. What do you have for me?"

The incubus's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "We've been over the clothes you brought. The scent indicates the last wearer had an overactive pineal gland, possibly caused by exposure to a highly supernaturally charged area such as the Underworld."

"And this tells me what?"

"You'd wanted some method of trying to connect with your sister-self—"

She poked him harder, heard flesh sizzle. "Don't call her that."

He sucked in a shaky breath. "—your alternate self. Right now, the only way alternate selves seem able to communicate is if both have their pineal gland removed. Like two-way radios with one shared frequency. If hers were normal, there wouldn't be anything we could do. It's like everyone with a normal pineal gland uses the same frequency. Too much chatter on the channel. But hers is really abnormal. We can stimulate yours to match hers."

"And what would that do?"

"Tune you into the same frequency. It would be tough, and I'm not sure the link would be permanent, but the effect should be pretty much the same."

She sat up, letting the sheet fall away from her body. Let the incubus look at the dessert tray; she didn't care. "In what way might it be different?"

"You'd have a lot more static, so to speak. No way could we match you perfectly. It's going to be more like tuning a ham radio to a distant station than just turning on a two-way. Actual communication probably wouldn't work, but you'd see and hear what she did, just in bursts. You might be able to influence things she says or does, too."

"Would she know it?"

The incubus licked his lips nervously. "That, I can't tell you. It's never been tried before. One thing's for certain, nobody will be expecting it."

Unexpected was good. Wendy's mind raced. Oh, the possibilities. "Can you do this?"

"It would be tricky. And dangerous. But yes, it's possible. The question is, is it really worth the risk?"

"I don't see any other alternative." How that admission pained her. "I thought that one-eyed pain in the ass would do me a favor and drink himself to death after I shot his Boy Wonder, but apparently, thanks to her, he's gone back to work. He's becoming a problem, Trevor, and I don't tolerate problems. I believe the cause of the problem might be the best solution."

"Are you sure it will work?"

There was a note of concern in his voice, but not, she knew, for her. She looked down at him with veiled dislike. That was the problem with minions. They were either mindless or coerced, never as much help as a like-minded partner, and they were all about self-preservation.

"You'd better hope it does. The Middleman isn't a big threat to me yet- " no way was she going to undermine her position by telling Trevor the truth - "but he's a persistent one. He's also got more lives than a colony of cockroaches. I don't want him to get lucky." Another little fact she wasn't sharing with Trevor; just how close to lucky One Eyed Snake had gotten a few times. "I might remind you that if I go down, that means you go down, and I don't mean in the way that involves lots of orgasms for me. Do we understand each other?"

He nodded, as she'd known he would. For all he'd like to see her thrown under a bus, Trevor was, at heart, a practical sort. She'd known that when she'd helped him plan his coup to oust that bitch Roxy and take over the former halfway house.

"The usual price?"

"Three virgins, with souls, from the darning camps. Your choice." She paused. "And Trevor?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

She dug a finger into his sternum until his flesh blistered red. He didn't scream – she wasn't the only one with control issues – but he went white as, well, a ghost.

"Don't even think about double-crossing me."

His eyes flared crimson with naked hate and hunger, but he bowed his head in submission.

Control. Sometimes, it was all about reminding people just how much you had over them.