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Spike threw the car into gear as he raced out of Wolfram & Hart's underground parking garage. Not that he was in a rush; it was the principle of the thing. Plus, the Viper always sounded better at full throttle. Wasn't his old DeSoto, but best of a good lot. Plus it would piss off Angel, as if he wasn't in a fine state already.
Bloody brilliant! He wished he'd had a camera. Peaches as a wee little puppet man! Harris would bust a gut laughing. Too bad there hadn't been time to get him into the office.
Spike had achieved his goal for the day; it was even a good deed. Not like an evil law firm NEEDED that many cars. And Harris would be safer driving around the city rather than relying on cabs. Half the night drivers were demons and, given his "magnet" status, it was surprising he hadn't already run into trouble. Stupid rental car policies. Harris was more mature than most people. What did it matter that he was under 25? The Viper would solve that problem.
He headed out of the downtown core into the more colorful neighbourhood where he lived.
He'd convinced Puppet Angel to let him have a car. Would have won the fight, but he'd been too busy chuckling. Luckily, winning put Grandsire in a slightly less surly mood, and he'd ordered Harm to give him a car. Harm had been as accommodating as always. Strike that: the bint DID get him want he wanted, and without the usual melodramatic sighs. Huh, she'd had an oddly knowing look on her face, then she'd smugly asked after.
He chuckled again. So Harm was finally putting those vamp senses to use. Good thing, too -- not like she had a lot of the common variety. Needed all the extras she could get, that one. And he'd guess that the puppetification inhibited Angel's sense of smell; that or the not-so-big brood was so self-involved he'd missed Xander's scent all over Spike.
Wonder if Harm would tell the others about the change in his relationship with Harris? Nah, given the dynamic he'd seen, it's not like they'd listen even if she did try. Maybe Fred would. She had a good head on her shoulders and a heart as big as Texas. Reminded him of Glinda, she did. Wonder if she and Percy would ever get together? The ex-watcher could match Angel for obliviousness.
Hold on now, when had he gotten to know the team's foibles so well, even if they did act like they were in a Passions episode? Didn't matter. Not like he was a real part of the group; he was just in it for the free stuff, to relieve the boredom a bit.
He should give Harris a call. Couldn't wait to see his face when he passed him the keys to the Viper. Boy had a grin that could light up a stadium. And he'd be beaming at Spike, unless...well, he'd never seen Harris get a present. Not like he'd been invited to the Christmas gatherings, and the boy never did seem to celebrate a birthday. He'd asked once and was brushed off with a comment about clowns. Not sure what he meant by that.
He listened to the engine. This stop-and-go city traffic wasn't what she needed. He should let those horses run. Coming to a decision, he pulled a U turn, ignoring the cacophony of horns honking and people swearing, and headed to the freeway. He was going to take the Viper for a bit of a constitutional in the desert.
Buffy hadn't liked his gifts. Been quite rude about it, actually. Used it as another way to snub him. Harris wouldn't, would he? Spike had heard the sharper side of Harris's talented tongue. Hell, almost every time they were around each other, he'd mouthed off. It had felt more like banter lately, the parry and thrust of an old vaudeville act. Enjoyable, not that he'd ever mention that. This morning, however, not a single quip. More casual. Was he being dismissed? Should he not give Harris the car? What if he laughed at it?
What was he thinking? No man would reject a Viper. Even Angel had succumbed to its allure. Harris was clearly male, but he did have an overdeveloped white knight complex. More focused on the giving than the getting. Proved that last night, quite clearly. Spike wiggled in the leather seat as his body remembered last night's fun. Once Xander had recovered from that purple star comment, he'd been a right thoughtful lover. Knew all that kissing skill could be otherwise applied.
But it wasn't the skills, it was his approach. Given that tanned body hardened by work and training, tenderness wasn't the first thought that sprung to mind. But, Harris had always looked after his girls, so it shouldn't have been surprising that he bestowed the same attention to his bed-mate. The same unswerving attention. It was quite heady -- and when did these jeans get so tight?
Spike glanced out the window, damn traffic. He needed to feel this car go. It wasn't reaching its potential all boxed in like this.
So, given a choice, would Xander take something from Angel? From the firm? From Spike? He never even let Spike grab the beers in the Bronze, even the few times when it wasn't his own dosh to start with. That watcher had trained them to look in the mouth of gift horses.
If Harris was going to turn down a right thoughtful present, one he went to quite a bit of trouble to get -- and asking Angel was a mite of trouble, especially since he was in such a feisty mood for such a fluffy fellow-- well then, he just wouldn't give it to him.
The thought of Puppet Angel caused him to grin. He wasn't worried about his sire. The crack team would save the day. Wasn't their battle cry "Help the helpless"? Not many more helpless than a three-foot-tall felt vamp in a grown vamp's world.
His mouth then hardened into a firm line. Gone to too much trouble to watch the carpenter take cabs. If Harris won't accept a gift, Spike would just have to come up with another plan.
Finally he was out of city traffic, on the I-15 to Vegas. Hey, maybe he'd take in a show. He'd heard that one of his old mates, an acrobat and Wt'chy demon, was now working for the Blue Men. Should be able to get some free drinks out of that one.
He hadn't been completely lying to His Broodiness; of the previous cars he'd "borrowed", one had legitimately been stolen. Outside his bloody apartment. If this Lindsey chap had been serious, he could have gotten him a flat like that Council one. Swank, that was. Funny that while it was the nicest place he'd ever seen Harris inhabit, it seemed to suck the soul out of the lad more than that basement of doom. Trust Harris to take his emotions out on the towels. Other than snark, he really didn't like confrontation.
Spike entertained himself by seeing how many cars he could pass in one stretch. He started with a triple but was working his way up to four transports and three SUVs. Like any of those twits were EVER planning on going off-road. Suddenly, he noticed a familiar sign and pulled across two lanes to hit the exit.
This road was less crowded, and he continued until he pulled into the parking area of the Opera House. It was still too sunny to get out of the car -- glad this car was treated with necrotempered glass -- but he didn't want to go back inside anyway.
He lit a cigarette and tilted back the driver's seat. He'd won. Even if the race was false. For the first time he'd beaten Angel/Angelus, whichever the pillock was feeling like today. He'd WON, and the wanker knew it. It wasn't as much about getting Buffy. And turning into a human? Not quite a reward in his books. Proved something here, buggered if he could figure out exactly what.
Taking another drag, he hit the CD player to change tracks. BOSE sound system. Even made the Pistols sound like they knew how to play. They changed the definition of heroic for a time, not accepting the status quo. 'Course, the Clash had done a much better job of it. Still couldn't believe Strummer had kicked the bucket. As if the car knew what he was thinking, the CD changed to London Calling. Five-CD changer, bloody brilliant. Able to put an assortment of things to bug Angel with.
Maybe that's what he was looking for: someone to fight with, someone who noticed him enough to argue. His nose was thankful that Harris didn't like punching as much as.. and had he just compared the boy to the Slayer? Maybe there was some subsonic Manilow playing in the system, 'cause obviously he was off his rocker.
Could have been just bodies. Quite a nice body, the boy had. "If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?" was the cheesy pickup line that ran through his mind. Lean and muscular, but with a solid, earthy feel. Yup, a fine body and a quick sense of humor. Plus, a bloody encyclopedic memory for pop-culture references, especially science fiction.
Spike had devoured Verne's stories as a lad and, once turned, was able to dedicate days to the new genre, from the early works of Wells to the stories of Asimov, Heinlein, and the like. Not that Dru was much good for chatting about it, though she did like the story of Dr. Moreau and his talking animals. But Xander, well, he was always up for a chat about the fanciful, even if he preferred to focus on telly and film adaptations.
So: a nice body, quick sense of humor, pop culture maven, and another science fiction aficionado who was caring and protective and didn't Spike sound like a bloody poof in love.
In love?
The Clash were singing about being lost in a supermarket, which was about the only place Xander hadn't had a job, and how the hell did he know that? But that's how Xander felt right now. Lost. And he'd turned up at Spike's.
Blast, how did his cig get low enough to burn him? Might as well head back to the city. Laughing at Angel should cheer Xander right up, and no man could resist taking the Viper for a spin. Not sure if there were any official patrols tonight, but couldn't hurt to hit a few of his usual haunts. Harris needed some exercise; no point in learning moves if you weren't going to use them.
The tires squealed as he exited the parking lot. Got a game plan: some laughter, some slaughter. Sounds like a good night.