Title: Field Trip
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Spike and Connor (non-slash)
Rating: G

Field Trip

"Mexico," Angel repeated.

For someone with so many facial expressions, it was astounding how often Spike picked 'unrepentant'. He smirked, and said nothing. Connor slouched lower in the chair, staring at Angel's desk in sullen silence.

It was times like this that he wished the labs downstairs stocked Doximal. Angelus, even pseudoAngelus, would be better at dealing with these two. Sure, he didn't want to eat them - well, not Connor - but maybe with a small enough dose he could just gnaw on them a little. Just until they behaved.

Angel threw down his pen.

"Steady, gramps," Spike muttered.

"Just out of my own curiosity over who, y'know, did huge amounts of damage to company property, whose idea was this trip?" he asked. As if he couldn't guess.

Spike pointed at Connor.

Connor just as quickly pointed at Spike.

"Yeah, okay, it was me," Spike admitted. "Wanted to introduce the Pup to some proper tequila, was all."

"Connor's not old enough to drink," Angel ground out.

They miscreants shared one of those looks that he never completely understood, but which pissed him off like nothing else.

"Well, yeah," Spike said reasonably. "Wouldn't be as much fun if he was."

He picked up his pen again and tapped it on the next line of the report Eve had delivered with so much glee. The drinking and the road trip weren't the main issues, much as they made him want to throttle his son and his… vampire-sired-by-a -vampire-he'd-sired.

They really needed a word for that.

"So you were almost at the border when you ran into," he frowned at the page, "a truck full of microwave demons?"

"Macarowav," Spike said. "Magpies of the demon world. They love their glittery treats. I did spell it for Harm. Dictation's not the girl's strong point. Tell you what, though…"

Angel cut him off before he could tell them what Harmony was talented at. "And that was when you crashed my car?"

"You have twelve," Connor muttered, nearly inaudible.

"Eleven," he snapped.

"Bit greedy," Spike said. "Eleven all for you when me and Connor don't even have one between us."

He spread his hands. "Connor can't even drive."

Spike lounged back in his chair. "Funny thing," he said, apparently to the ceiling, "when you're being chased at a hundred and fifty by a truckload of demon jewel thieves and the driver has to take shotgun - literally - it's a whatdyacallit. Learning curve."

For the first time since they'd been dragged into the office, Connor smiled. "That was cool," he said. "I could've shot at them, though."

"Last time you handled the rifle you nearly took off my head," Spike groused.

"What!"

They ignored Angel. It was something of a habit, he'd noticed.

"You were still a ghost then," Connor argued. "It wouldn't have hurt you."

"You let him handle guns?"

Spike raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, kid was only raised in a hell world, god forbid we should let him near projectile weapons. He might hurt himself."

Angel leaned across the desk, making his voice as low and as dangerous as Angelus had ever gotten. "Spike. You do not give Connor guns. You do not get him drunk. You do not teach him to drive, take him to Mexico or show him how to make napalm. Do you understand?"

Spike opened his mouth, then clearly thought better of it.

Connor shoved his chair back. Angel looked at him, surprised.

"You always do this! You talk about me like I'm not even here." He strode to the door, stopping only to fire his parting shot. "I bet you wish I wasn't here. Then nobody would've wrecked your stupid car."

Angel dropped his face into his hands and massaged his temples, waiting for the crash of the slammed door to stop reverberating. He pressed the button on his desk. "Harmony? Could I have some blood? Maybe with a couple of Advils?"

Her "sure thing, boss!" was far too chirpy. He made a mental note to ask the company therapist about assigning him someone more on the depressive side. He could bring it up at Connor's next session.

"I should go after Pup," Spike said, half out of his chair.

"Sit. Down."

For once, he was obeyed. He picked up the report again, and sighed.

"So what happened after you stole the diamonds?"