|
“That was just…wait - how many ‘bloodys’ have
I got left?”
Xander pulled
a crinkled slip of paper out of his pocket and peered at the tick marks. “You’re over your limit. In fact, you
owe me a quarter each for the ‘bloody hell’ and ‘bloody right’ I got back in the theatre from a) spilling
my soda and b) apologizing for it.”
Spike sighed and wormed a hand into his front pocket, flinging a couple of
quarters and a ticket stub at Xander. “Any case, that bit of cinema was blo…atantly fantastic. Mad brilliant,
to borrow a phrase.”
“Star Dog, Ranger of the North Woods?” Xander said, shrugging, as they
headed toward the van. “Funnier when I saw it done on MSTK3 like, a million years ago.”
“You’re
just mad ‘cause I wouldn’t share my chocolates,” Spike said, edging past Xander with a triumphant smirk
as he reached the driver’s side of the van first and pulled out his keys. He started to unlock the door, hearing Xander
sigh behind him and then head toward the passenger side. Spike looked up, grinning, and then…
“Hang on…”
“What?”
Xander asked, turning back, his fingers clenching impatiently on the hood of the van.
Spike’s eyes widened, his
head jerking toward the tinted van windows in an attempt to signal Xander closer.
Xander shrugged. “What?”
Spike
jerked his head harder, mouthing silent instructions.
Xander narrowed his eyes, trying to read Spike’s lips.
He shrugged. Harder. “What?”
“Oh, blo…imey,” Spike bit out, trying to keep his
voice down. “Just get over here.”
Xander rounded the van, easing up behind Spike’s shoulder and
looking past him into the darkened windows. “What the…?” He fumbled for the handle, jerking the door open.
They
both stared into the van, eyes widening, as they took in the full suit of armor sitting in the driver’s seat, helmet
plume curling down over a closed face guard, gleaming silver gauntlets raised to the steering wheel and positioned precisely
at proper driving procedure at 10:00 and 2:00.
“Well, that’s a bit of over-the-top symbolism,” Spike
drawled, his head dipping as he gave Xander a knowing look.
“Hey - I didn’t put that there,”
Xander said, “no way am I ever that cheesy.”
“Got a box of crackers stowed under the seat that says
different,” Spike answered. “So if it’s not one of your grand, dramatic gestures…”
Xander
shrugged.
“Give it a poke,” Spike suggested.
“Ew. And ow,” Xander added as an
afterthought.
Spike rolled his eyes and elbowed Xander out of the way. “Here.” Spike gave the ‘may
be symbolic, may be not’ suit of armor a shove. It listed to the side with a loud creak and then…nothing. “Right,”
Spike muttered. “So what is it…?”
“A clue?” Xander offered.
“Yeah, grabbing
that,” Spike said slowly, “but what…”
“One way to find out,” Xander said, “here,
let me reach around…” causing Spike to utter a sharp, “Heh,” which lead to Xander rolling his eyes,
nudging Spike with his hips, thinking better of that, and just ducking around him until he could reach the walkie talkie wedged
beneath the seat.
Adjusting to the proper frequency, he raised it to his lips. “Nighthawk to base. Come in base,
this is Nighthawk.”
Angel’s voice burst over the receiver, flavoring even the static with a resigned, world
weary pop. “For the last time, Xander, I’m Nighthawk.”
“No way,” Xander said,
“Cordy gave me that name first. Not my bad she couldn’t come up with anything fresh for you. Besides, I
told you that you could be Dark Wing.”
“Oh, right,” Angel huffed, “And then I have to hear
from Spike - Spike - why Buffy and Willow giggled and quacked at me every time I used it. I don’t see
why we even need code names – no one else is ever on this freq…”
“Oh, give me that,”
Spike said, snatching the walkie talkie from Xander’s hand. He raised it to his mouth, met Xander’s eyes, and
then snaked his tongue out, licking the receiver where Xander’s lips had been. Having gotten the moan and glare combination
he was angling for, he continued, “Yeah, uh, Big Bird, this is Bloody Marvel…hey, we said that one doesn’t
count,” he hissed as Xander reached for his tick mark list.
Xander shrugged, conceding.
Spike nodded
and turned his attention back to the walkie talkie. “Hawkman and I just left the cinema,” he began.
“Ooo,
whadya see?” Willow’s voice crackled over the speaker.
“Star Dog, Ranger of the North Woods,”
Xander shouted into the speaker and Spike’s left ear, respectively.
“Hee,” Willow giggled, “is
that the one – quit it, Angel – is that the one where Tom Servo sings the Kim Cattrall song?”
“No,
that’s City Limits,” Xander answered, warming to the topic, “this was the one where
Crow dressed up in drag and…”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Spike said, elbowing Xander off of
him. “Willow, give the little talk toy back to Angel and make sure his finger’s off the talk button, right?”
“Spike, get off this frequency unless you have an actual emergency,” Angel commanded. “Now, over,
and, er…”
“Been ‘outed’ mate,” Spike said. “Any rate, I’m not the cheap
bastard who disconnected our cell phones, am I?"
“That’s because you and Xander were calling each other
from inside the van…,” Angel began.
“Got a mystery that needs solving, love,” Spike
interrupted smoothly. “Got out of the pictures to find someone had left us a little present…”
“You’ve
been doing good with the ‘bloodys’,” Xander said, generously, “I’ll let you throw in a ‘pressie’
if you want.”
Spike snorted and continued, “all propped up in the driver’s seat like a blo…oomin’
chauffeur is a suit of armor – as in knight in shining.” He paused, finger still on the talk button, letting a
moment fill until it was heavy with pointed silence, then released so that Angel could reply.
As Spike’s finger
eased off the button, the sound of grinding teeth came over the airwaves and Spike and Xander looked at each other, grinning
in anticipation.
They weren’t disappointed.
“I’ve apologized for that all I’m going
to,” Angel said. “Everything Angelus ever did,” he muttered, “and I’ll be atoning for those
two words long after everyone who knew anyone I killed, tortured or turned is dead. White Knight,” he spat. “I
could have been talking about The Moody Blues, you know.”
“Then it’d have been ‘Knights in
White Satin’,” Spike said, “which, really, more your speed…”
“What’s
the mystery, Spike?”
“Other than why everyone always assumes you’re the butch?” Spike answered,
managing to convey a shrug through radio waves, “unless you or Harris are moonlighting at Medieval Times, I’d
say this is pretty high up there on the ‘hang on a mo’ meter.”
“Fine,” Angel sighed.
“Bring it in, we’ll have Willow give it a once over and see if there really is anything mysterious here, or if
this is another case of you and Xander creating mystery, like the time you convinced us that the Burbank Airport Hilton
was under attack by Neffrus demons instead of Star Wars conventioneers, just because you wanted to meet Ewan McGregor…!”
“He
was signing body parts!” Xander yelled.
“Right, then,” Spike said, “bringin’ in the
road warrior. Bloody Marvel – over and…flamin’.”
Xander grinned. “I think ‘over
and queenin’ is still my favorite.”
Spike chuckled. “Poof can’t even say ‘out’
anymore. Should get the cells back any day now.” He turned and pulled himself up into the van, nudging the armor, “Shove
over, Prince Albert, we’ve gotta…”
The suit of armor turned its head, eyes flaring red behind the
face guard. “Aaack!” Spike screamed, falling back, his arms pin wheeling. Xander harmonized with a, “Yeek!”
and caught Spike, then tumbled over, falling atop Spike as the knight in armor leapt from the van and took off across the
parking lot, metal clanking and squeaking.
Xander looked down at Spike, bent over beneath him, hands splayed against
the cement, holding them both up. “So that’s what the view looks like from this angle…”
Spike
shoved him off, entangling them both in his duster. “He’s getting away!”
Xander wiggled his foot
loose from Spike’s oversized pockets. “So what do we do?”
“Follow him, you idiots!” Angel
bleated from the discarded walkie talkie.
Xander and Spike got to their feet, glaring at each other. Spike tossed his
head, adjusted his collar and climbed in behind the wheel. “Tosser.”
Xander scooped up the walkie talkie
and stalked around the van. “Butt nugget.” ***
Spike stayed on the knight’s tail,
and in doing so, attempted to push aside thoughts of Heath Ledger. There was a mystery to be solved after all, no time for
fun with sexy homonyms. He killed the headlights as he and Xander watched as the suit of armor slipped inside a small, private
museum, El Museo Pretensio.
“Well, hardly trying to be stealthy, is he?” Spike asked as he and
Xander climbed out of the van.
“Doesn’t have much choice, what with the ‘clang, clang,’ jogging
style and the so-not-unmarked van shadowing him,” Xander said, nodding toward the bright green cargo door as they passed
it. The carefully stenciled “Scooby Gang” was plastered over with legal injunctions, their over sized pages making
it read, “oo bang.” Above that was hand written, “Angel’s Avengers,” which had been marred with
giant, black spray painted letters that spelled out, “The Bloody Bunch.” And finally, above that, was a nifty
little doodle of Chim Chim from Speed Racer, of which Xander was inordinately proud.
They reached the doors
to the museum, and while Spike geared up to kick through the plate glass despite witnessing the knight’s easy, unlocked
entrance just moments before, Xander read the placard displayed on an easel in the lobby.
“One night only –
Professor Wesley Wyndam-Pryce – hey, Wesley! - noted archeologist, demonologist, bi-polargist and rogue art critic will
be offering insight into the painting, ‘The Rage.’”
“Stupid…sodding…blo…ithering
bullet resistant glass…hang on, did you say, ‘The Rage’?” Spike’s attempts to shatter the glass
doors remained unsuccessful as he lay on the ground and battered at them with his feet like a two-year-old in a tantrum. “Who’s
the artist?” he grunted.
“Uh…” Xander squinted, leaning forward into the glass as he tried
to read the fine print. “It just says, ‘by A’…”
Xander’s weight against the glass
caused the door to slide smoothly open, sending a kicking Spike barreling through the doors in a forward somersault. “Blo…asphemin’
Christ!”
“Let me guess,” Xander said, walking over to give Spike a hand up. “A is for Angel.
And you’re the…”
“The Rage,” Spike said, batting Xander’s hand away and jumping
to his feet, shaking the wrinkles out of his duster.
Xander cocked his head. “Actually, comin’ off as
more ‘blustering chagrin’ right now.”
“Shut up and c’mon,” Spike said, leaping
the turnstile and heading into the museum. As he passed the sarcophagus exhibit, he turned to Xander. “Now, remember,
we’re here to pick up clues, not chicks.”
“Did you get vertigo from that little trip back to 1997?”
Xander shook his head. “Why are you always my field trip buddy?”
“’Cause you and I are
so perfect together,” Spike answered, peering around a corner and listening intently for their friend in creaky tin.
“Both of us outsiders, always making the wrong choices, wearing our hearts on our sleeves, loyal once we decide someone’s
deserving of said loyalty and both of us overcompensating for our perceived shortcomings, not to mention neither of us being
good enough for Buffy, which makes us natural brothers in each other’s arms.” His eyes narrowed as he picked up
the subtle sound of movement coming from the other side of the wall and then turned back to look at Xander, “Besides,
everyone knows we’re doin’ it.”
“No, everyone knows you and Angel, everyone
suspects…”
“”How’d you guys get in here?”
Spike and Xander both
jumped and turned around, hearing a querulous voice that was aiming for cantankerous, and even paired with paint splattered
old-man overalls, but it was coming from a baby-faced blond who couldn’t have been a day over seventeen. Or he could
have been twenty-three playing at seventeen, but in any event he certainly wasn’t the typical, crusty, overall clad
caretaker they usually encountered. Plus he was bare-chested and be-nipple-ringed beneath the overalls, and the butt-flap
was hanging open just a bit to show off a pair of ultra-white, ultra-tight Calvin Klein briefs.
“The door was
unlocked.”
“Kicked the door in.”
They answered simultaneously, and then glared at each other
for the required beat, before turning that glare onto the interrogator in gaping overalls.
“I’m Mr. Taylor,
the museum curator. And we’re closed. Besides,” he said, giving Spike’s head-to-toe black leather and Xander’s
orange leather jeans and blue-and-orange striped t-shirt a once over, “Sub/Dom day was Tuesday.”
Spike
and Xander gave each other a once over, enjoyed it so much it became a twice over, and then shrugged. “People in ass-less
pants shouldn’t throw stones you know,” Xander said.
“Yeah, well,” the cherubic (in a fallen,
dirty faced angel sort of way) blond answered, “people with a waist size over 28 shouldn’t wear orange leather,
either…”
Before Xander could rebut, the sound of clanking metal erupted from around the corner.
Mr.
Taylor, the curator, blanched and ran toward the sound. Spike and Xander made to give chase, and then fell over each other
when Buffy’s voice squawked out of the walkie talkie that was shoved into Spike’s back pocket.
“Spike!
Xander! Where the hell are you two?”
Spike ripped the walkie talkie out of his pants. “Losing our first
good lead…”
“And possible third,” Xander added hopefully with a wink.
Spike
made an ‘eh’ face and then turned his attention back to Buffy, who was still sputtering forth from the receiver
because she never took her finger off of talk. Ever. “The first rule of engagement? Always check in with base!
You never go on recon without checking in with base!”
“Oh, drop the semper fi, Slayer,” Spike said,
“you’re talking to two guys in leather and eyeliner who are chasing after an animated phallic symbol, complete
with erect plume, I might add, as well as a twinkie in open-ass overalls.”
“I’m not asking what
you and Xander had planned for tonight,” Buffy snapped, “I need to know what’s going on with the mystery!”
Spike sighed. “Just put Red on, will you?”
A few minutes of Buffy grumbling later and…
“What’s
up, Bloody Marvel?” Willow asked cheerily.
“Listen up, Red Bird, we’re at that pretentious new museum
downtown. Got a lead on our knight boy and I need you to check out a couple of things. First – Angel’s old pal,
Percy, see if you can dig him up. Then run a, whatcha call it, specs or whatall on the curator of this museum, Mr.
Taylor, and see if we can pull anything on him.”
“I can pull him,” Xander said confidently, sucking
in his stomach and running a thumb along his waistband.
Spike rolled his eyes and continued. “Then you and Buffy
trundle Angel’s ass in the car and get over here. There’s something weird about this place – way too poncy
for Sunnydale, know what I mean?”
“For Sunnydale?” Willow answered, crinkled nose cuteness coming
through the speaker. “Too poncy for a one Starbucks-and-six-demon-sex-clubs town like Sunnydale?”
“It
does sort of give the wig,” Xander said, glancing around at the track lighting and muted pastels. “Not to mention
the… nee-yah! Demon Knight! Demon Knight! Demon Knight!”
Xander backpedaled into Spike as the knight ran
straight for them, red eyes glowing demonically behind the closed face plate, and they both ran in place for a moment as the
leg zipper on Xander’s leather pants got caught on the rip-away-velcro-crotch of Spike’s.
Wiggling loose,
they took off across the museum, Spike throwing kicks back at the knight and cursing (Brit slang free, he was almost out of
quarters) when his blows just glanced off the metal armor.
Running toward one of the show rooms, Xander leapt the velvet
rope (no small feat in skin-tight leather) and pulled Spike along with him. They jumped into a Chinese vase the size of a
four man hot tub and pulled the lid closed.
A few minutes later, as the sound of clanking metal passed them by, Xander
turned to Spike in the dark, sliding a hand carefully up a leather clad thigh.
“You know what this reminds me
of, don’t you?” he murmured. “That time we climbed into the Hyperion’s dryer to hide from Angel…?”
“Mmm,”
Spike said, lowering his lips toward the sound of Xander’s voice, “gave a whole new meaning to ‘high heat
tumble’, didn’t we?”
“Yeah,” Xander breathed, feeling the heat of his breath flare against
Spike’s lips as they came closer…
“NOT WHILE ON A CASE!” Buffy, Willow and Angel simul-screeched
from the walkie talkie.
Spike and Xander jerked apart, banging their heads on the lid of the vase. Growling, Spike
threw a punch at the lid and, vampire strength combined with sexual frustration being what it is, the lid flew across the
room, shattering against a wall. Unfortunately, it was accompanied by the walkie-talkie.
“Oh, perfect,”
Spike groaned. “So what do we do now?”
Xander leaned back against the inside of the vase. “Wait
for Buffy, Willow and Angel to save us, and, in the mean time, finish what we started,” he said, tugging Spike toward
him.
Spike grinned, leaning in, and then quickly frowned, saying, “Wait – I don’t get saved –
I’m the saver. Savior. Whatever.” He stood up in the vase, tugging Xander with him, and then they crawled out,
being as quiet as possible, which isn’t easy when you’re talking double glazed porcelain, metal studs and motorcycle
boots.
Spike dusted himself off, and then patted Xander down for good measure, saying, “Our job, pet, is to
find the clues, put them all together using our not inconsiderable powers of deduction and then solve the mystery right in
time for Angel to show up and take all the glory.”
“No, that’s Willow,” Xander frowned.
“Oh,
yeah,” Spike said slowly, studying the room around them and making note of shadowed areas, good places to get handholds
for a summersault and possible weaponry. “Well, then it’s our job to land the good kicks and jabs and bring the
bad men to heel until Angel shows up to land that final blow and take all the glory.”
“No,” Xander
said, shaking his head as he followed Spike over to a wall of portraits. “That’s Buffy.”
“Oh,
hold on, you’re right,” Spike said, staring at a blank space on the wall and then looking at Xander. “Wait
a minute – I’ve kicked Angel’s ass more than once, come close to Buffy’s – in more ways than
one, I’ll have you know – I’m a master of more martial arts disciplines than there are colors to make belts
for them and you – look at you – six foot even if you’re an inch, obviously supple, limber and athletic,
and you’re saying we can’t suss out our positions as an evil fighting unit?”
“We’re
the comic relief that unifies the inherent compositions of both demon and man with our humorous cowardice and unbridled hedonism?”
Xander offered with a smile.
Spike quirked a brow and then shook his head. “No. We’re the eye candy.”
He slapped a finger over Xander’s quivering lips. “And so help me, Xander, if you say, ‘No, that’s
Angel,’ they’ll be the last words you say tonight!”
Xander bit lightly at the tip of Spike’s
finger. “Promise?”
“C’mon,” Spike said, hiding a grin as he turned back to the blank
space on the wall. “Look at this,” he nodded. “Painting’s missing.”
“So?”
Spike shrugged. “Could be another clue.”
“Like the trail of red paint running from beneath
where the painting used to be to the secret, hidden door over there that’s not quite closed?”
Spike sighed,
rolled his eyes and banged his forehead against Xander’s before dragging his comrade in bumbling heroism toward the
secret door.
***
“So…what are we looking for?” Buffy asked as she swatted the flashlight Willow
was shining in her eyes out of the way.
Willow shrugged, frowning at Angel, whose foot was lifted to kick in the door
before lightly pushing it open. “I’m not sure…Spike just said it felt ‘poncy’…”
“He
was probably just feeling Xander,” Angel said, grimacing at the track lighting and muted pastel colored lobby.
“Hey,
look at this,” Willow said, gesturing with her flashlight at the poster announcing Wesley Wyndam-Pryce’s visit.
“The Rage,” Angel gasped beneath his breath (which is really hard to do, gasp beneath your breath, especially
when you’re a vampire – takes almost a yoga-like level of concentration) and then looked away when Buffy and Willow
turned to him, frowning.
“It’s this way,” Buffy said, leading the others toward the room displaying
portraits.
Angel looked down as his foot crunched on a broken walkie talkie and then looked up, glowering. “Spike.”
“Here it is,” Willow said, calling the others to the portrait. "‘The Rage’.”
“That’s
not ‘The Rage,’” Angel said, glowering deeper until eyebrows became one solid line of suppressed emotion
and hair follicles.
“Oh, you’re right,” Willow said, “This one’s just ‘Rage’.”
“Typo?” Buffy asked with a shrug.
“That’s not ‘The Rage’,”
Angel said, stepping forward. “Color’s mostly the same, except for the lack of definition and the lighting’s
wrong, but he, him, that guy – that’s not The Rage. Okay, the cheekbones are somewhat similar – if you’re
blind and desperate – and the ‘compact but well muscled’ physique parallels could be drawn, but c’mon,
he’s not even blond…”
“Angel, what’s the topic where you’re conversing?”
Buffy asked.
“What?” Angel snapped, turning to look at her. “Oh. Right – there’s nothing
here. C’mon, let’s see if we can locate our not-so-secret weapons and see what they’ve found out.”
“’Kay,” Willow said, heading for the door. “Watch out, though, don’t step in that red
paint.”
***
The light from Willow’s flashlight faded away and then the secret, not-so-well-hidden doorway opened
as Spike stepped through, followed by Xander, who carried a muslin draped canvas.
“…wait for you to see ‘The Rage,’
love. Kinda surprised it’s still being talked about, and by Wesley, of all people, poncy bugger never even mentioned
he’d seen it…”
Xander bit his lip, frowning as he walked over to where the missing portrait had hung.
“Spike, shouldn’t we be trying to find that knight guy? I mean, pictures of you? Great. Possibly naked –
because I know my Angelus – pictures of you? Even greater. But we are supposed to be on a case…and we’ve
lost our talkie and…”
Spike reached around him and whipped the muslin off the canvas. Xander drew in a
deep breath. “Knight? What knight? Hum...meee….yaw…”
Spike smirked, and rightly so, before
lifting the painting to hang it back in…the space where another, very similar painting, already hung. “What the…?”
Xander
looked between the two pictures, frowning. “He did two?”
“That one’s not me, you git,”
Spike said, pointing at the well hung painting. Xander frowned harder, and Spike sighed. “Look at his cock.”
Xander
grinned, nodding. “Oops, my bad.”
He set the painting of Spike next to the other and gestured between
them. “But check it out, Spike – they’re pretty much the same. Well, except for the hair. And you have better
cheekbones. And he’s quite a bit taller…” Xander almost swallowed his tongue backtracking from that one,
“tolerant, in regard to evil. Which you’re not. Because that’s what this is…some sort of naked Spike
portrait stealing evil! Or else Angel had another…” Xander just stopped, biting his tongue while he was ahead.
“No,” Spike said, shaking his head. “Angel did a whole series of these, just of me. “The
Blond, The Blond British Vampire, The Younger Vampire, and once, after all originality was gone, The
Other Man...“
“This one’s just called ‘Rage,’” Xander said, confused. “Where’s
the handy modifier, now, huh? And this guy’s not nearly as pretty as you…”
Xander’s head rang
like a gong as a metal gauntlet slammed into it. “Ow! Christ!” he groaned, “always the head!”
Spike
threw a kick at the knight, spinning it tumbling over the giant Chinese vase. “Run!”
He and Xander ran
through several rooms until they entered the Antiquities of American History wing.
“Come on!” Xander yelled,
“into that bi-plane!”
“Why is there an antique bi-plane in an art museum?” Spike shouted as
he ran.
“Since when is Wesley an archeologist and why would an archeologist be offering a symposium on
19th century erotic art? I’m just reading the placards, here!” Xander shouted as he hauled himself up into the
open cockpit and pulled Spike in after him.
“So. Cockpit,” Spike said, looking around them. “You
wanna jump on that one, or shall I?”
“Walkie-talkie broken? Check,” Xander said, easing on top of
Spike. “Too good to pass up location like ‘cockpit’? Check,” he continued, kissing his way down Spike’s
chest. “Sexy life or death situation? Che…” he mumbled the rest of the words in Spike’s mouth as he
was dragged up to meet a seriously turned on vampire. I mean, cockpit? Erotic art? Leather pants? Please.
“C’mon,
baby,” Spike murmured against Xander’s neck and he slowly brushed his hips against Xander’s. “Let
me feel you…”
Xander grinned and ground down on Spike, only to shoot across his body ten or so inches
and end up with Spike’s nose digging into his navel.
“Dammit! Blo…undering, useless leather trousers,”
Spike snarled, dragging Xander back down until their bodies were flush against each other. “Lesson the first: once of
us always has to have on denims, got it?”
“Got it,” Xander breathed, covering Spike’s mouth
with his own and then sliding his hands around Spike’s hips, holding them steady as he thrust them together again…and
kicked the ignition, causing the plane to taxi down the display room before taking off.
Gliding nearly six feet off
the ground, they neatly cleared the heads of Willow and Buffy and just barely dented Angel’s hair, as they flew out
of the antiquities room and back into the modern art show room.
“What the hell are you doing?” Angel bellowed
as Spike and Xander fought over the tiller, trying to turn the plane. The plane slowly turned, heading back the way it had
come, when the knight came running straight toward it, arms waving.
Angel and Buffy both swung a punch, sending the
knight flying into the nose of the plane, leaving Spike and Xander no choice but to crash land into the wall, neatly pinning
the knight right next the two ‘Rage’ paintings.
“Now let’s see who you really are,”
Spike said, straddling the nose of the plane to reach the knight’s helmet.
“I’ll tell you who he
is,” Willow began.
“Do you mind?” Spike said, turning to frown at her. “This is one Xander
and I actually solved. It’s the only person who could have painted that second painting and blo…ousy good
thing we found him, too. Probably thought we’d never find you out, did you…Angelus!” Spike said triumphantly
as he tore the helmet off the knight and looked into the pouty face of…museum curator, Mr. Taylor.
“Spike…”
Angel said slowly, “you know Angelus and I aren’t actually two separate people, right?”
“That,”
Willow said pointedly, “is Justin Taylor, the youngest graduate ever from the Pittsburgh Institute of Art. He had a
brilliant career ahead of him until critics and the homoerotic art buying public discovered he could only paint one thing…that
man!” she said, pointing at the painting that was a stroke by stroke copy of Angel’s except for the man’s
face (and other attributes that were nice, but not quite as nice, as Spike’s.)
“Would you people shut
up and get me out of here!” a muffled voice came from within a wooden figure of an American Indian (hey, I don’t
make this stuff up, I just read the placards.) Xander went over and unlatched it, revealing…
“Wesley Wyndam-Pryce!”
the gang chorused.
Wesley frowned, holding his bound wrists out for Spike to untie. “There was a time when you
all just called me Wes, you know…”
“So Mr. Taylor, the museum curator, has been copying other works
of erotic art and inserting the face of the lover who spurned him, known only as ‘Rage’…”
“What
happened to the original Rage?” Buffy asked.
“He’s out-raged,” Xander grinned.
Willow
rolled her eyes and continued, “and selling them to the unsuspecting erotic art loving public and making quite a profit.
He locked up Professor Wesley Wyndam-Pryce…”
“Just ‘Wes’ would be sufficient!”
“…because
he was the only erotic art expert able to detect the forgeries.”
“And I would have gotten away with it,
too,” Justin said, pushing out his puffy lips, “if it hadn’t been for you fucking grown ups.”
Spike
jumped down from the plane, pulling Justin with him. “You’re gonna take that back, jailbait, ‘cause I’ve
spent my whole un-life pullin’ off mid to late 20s!”
Justin curled his lip, looking Spike over, “A
diet of nicotine and O Neg have given you high cheekbones and an overly ripped bod, but you’re not more than one decade
away from 50!”
“Oh, this is gonna be worth it,” Spike said, as he reached into the button fly of
his jeans and removed the carefully arranged roll of quarters there and flung it at Xander. “I’m gonna bloody
well rip your bleeding head off your sodding neck, you poncy, bloody wanker of a git!”
***
“Here,” Angel said as Spike called shotgun and climbed up into the passenger seat of the
van. “Since you and Xander did, really, this time, catch the bad guy, I guess you deserve these back.”
Spike
grinned down at the cell phone Angel dropped into his hand. “Thanks, mate,” he said, leaning over and kissing
Angel hard on the lips.
Angel shoved him off. “Whatever. Just…emergencies only, okay? I mean, even with
the unlimited family plan calls, we’re still talking a monthly surcharge per phone. Take it easy, okay?”
Spike
gave him a wink, nodded at Willow to distract him with post-mystery solving exposition and then quickly speed dialed the number
listed under ‘Nighthawk.’
Spike glanced back over his shoulder as Xander’s voice sounded in stereo
from the phone in his hand and from two seats behind. “Pretty good day, love,” he said, reaching down to cup himself
through his jeans and making sure Xander’s eyes followed the hand all the way down. “Feel like a Scooby Snack…?”
THE END
A/N: "Star
Dog, Ranger of the North Woods," is the actual movie Shaggy and Scooby watch in "What a Night for a Knight," and I just thought
it sounded MSTK3-y. Spike having to pay a quarter every time he said "bloody" came from re-watching the first few eps of AtS
S5 and thinking, "Hmm...those Angel writers are just like fic writers - you gotta throw in a lot of 'bloodys' at first until
you get the hang of his voice. Once you've worked your way up to shaggin' and bollocks - you're home free!
A/N 2: Justin, is of course, Justin Taylor from "Queer
as Folk." I just felt this bit of silliness needed some crossover silliness, too.
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