Summary Spike, Angel,
felt, foam and two hundred eighty-six horses
Rating PG
Disclaimer No felt, foam or stuffing was harmed in the writing of this story.
Any injured copyrights
were unintentional
Notes Written for Ashlyn26 in the puppet!Angel ficathon. Ashlyn asked for
Spike and Angel driving somewhere. For a look at the new penis car, check it out here.
And blessings rain down on the head of my divine beta, Mydeira.
“Do you have to drive so fast?”
“Look, puppet boy, I’m not the one who came beggin’ for a ride. Now, this is my shiny new penis car, I’ll drive it however I bloody well want.”
“Yeah? Well, I bought it for you.”
“No, Evil Incorporated bought it for me. You just deigned to sign the authorization.” He sat up self importantly behind the wheel. “’M takin’ on the establishment. Strikin’ a blow against corporate oppression.”
“At three cars a month.” Angel’s plush mouth curled in derision. “At that rate, it will only take you the rest of the millennium to bring the firm to its knees.”
Spike looked over at him with a wicked chuckle. “Yeah, but it’ll be fun.”
Angel slouched back disconsolately in his seat, the ubiquitous pile of phone books that made up his makeshift booster seat sliding a bit beneath him. He didn’t want to be here. But after two days as a puppet, here was better than anyplace else.
He leaned forward to distract himself from those thoughts, but was stopped in midreach by the seat belt. He stretched and strained to reach the console, but finally gave up to fall panting against the seat.
“What are you on about?” Spike asked, noticing his dilemma.
“I can’t reach the radio,” Angel admitted sulkily.
Spike grinned and with a twist of the wrist cranked up the heavy punk CD he had in the player.
Angel glared at him, covering his ears. When that didn’t help, in a fit of desperate inspiration, he pulled his ears off entirely. Unfortunately, due to the vagaries of puppet physiology, he could still hear just fine. Finally he put the two pieces together face to face and stuck them in his pocket. That seemed to help.
For a long time, he just watched the scenery flash by as they drove out of the city and into the surrounding hills. He realized with surprise that this was really the first time he’d ever seen it in daylight.
He didn’t notice that the music had been turned down until he felt a tap on his skinny arm. He looked over to see Spike looking at him expectantly. Spike mouthed something that Angel couldn’t hear, reminding him about his ears. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, taking them out and sticking them back in place. “What did you say?”
“I asked,” Spike said, turning his attention back to the road, “why did you want to come out here in the first place? Know I’m not your favorite person right now.”
“Or ever,” Angel responded automatically. Then conceded, “But you’re the only one I can count on not to look at me pityingly.”
“Ah.” Spike glanced over. “All the eyes gettin’ to you, eh?”
“No one says anything, but I can see it in everybody’s eyes. And Fred keeps trying to pat my head,” he added, sulky.
“I get it. Gets to be too much, you just needed to get out.”
“What do you know about it?”
Spike looked at him incredulously. “Lived in a house for three months with two dozen teenaged girls who were right curious about vamps in general and me in particular. The pokin’ and the starin’ and the questions never ended. But look on the bright side.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
“You’ll be back to normal in a day or so. I had to die to get outta that house.”
“Do you have to turn everything into a martyrdom story?”
“Well, yeah. Otherwise what’s the point in having come back?”
Having no retort, Angel fell back into watching the landscape change from green hills to flat, beige desert.
This time he was the one to break the silence. “How did you total the Boxster?”
“Hmn?” Spike pulled his gaze away from the road. “Oh,” realizing what he was being asked. “I was chasin’ a Mintanaric that had been feedin’ on the homeless guys camping out under the 101 near Griffiths Park. Those buggers are fast, but they like the straight aways, so I was able to chase him in the car. Didn’t realize how close I was to the viaduct until I’d plowed into him. Went over the edge with him, we both sank like stones. He was pinned under the car, I got out and swept downstream. Couldn’t get out ‘til I got to a transfer station.”
“You ran into him? Intentionally?” Angel was appalled. “Spike, a Porsche Boxster is a finely honed piece of machinery. It is not a weapon.”
Spike shrugged. “Had to use what was to hand, didn’t I?”
“It was a Porsche!” He held onto his indignation as long as he could. “Still,” he said grudgingly, “this is a beautiful car. What is it?”
“A Morgan. The Aero 8. Just came into production. All aluminum body, leather interior, does one sixty without flinchin’, zero to sixty in a heartbeat. Design’s based off one they made back in the Jazz Age.”
“I remember seeing one once. It was amazing. It had two wheels in the front and one in the back. It was the strangest, most incredible piece of machinery I’d ever seen. I was in Detroit at the time. The designers were so jealous.” He paused for a moment. “Come to think of it, that’s where I saw the Jazz Singer for the first time, too.”
“Yeah? I think Dru and I were in New Orleans. Or Cuba. Was someplace hot, I remember that much.”
Another pause. “How’s the gas mileage?”
“About five gallons to the mile. We’re gonna have to turn back soon. Or find a full serve station with a roof.”
“No,” Angel sighed resignedly. “I should probably get back.”
“Whatever you say.” And with no warning, he slammed on the brakes, yanking up on the emergency brake to throw the car into a flawless bootlegger reverse that threw Angel’s lightweight body up against the passenger window.
When he peeled himself off the glass and readjusted his foam features, he glared at Spike. “You did that on purpose.”
He grinned. “Just cuz I don’t pity you, don’t mean I like you any better. Besides . . .”
“I know, I know,” Angel interrupted with a sigh, and they both finished the thought together.
“It was fun.”