Winner: Best Fluff and Quickie Fic at Sunny D Memorial Awards
Nominated Best Short Fic, Best Humor, Best Fanfic Name
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Felt or Fur: The Cautionary Tale of Puppet Angel
by spikeNdru
PG-13
3743 words
Written for dovil's Mpreg Challenge Ficathon
Many thanks to makd for not only betaing, but laughing frequently while doing so! And thanks to Painbow for "delivering" the title.
Disclaimer: All characters the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and 20th Century Fox; I'm just playing with them (and having an inordinate amount of fun doing so!)
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Could things get any worse?Angel decided it might be a good thing to stop asking himself that question, because every single time he did, the answer was a resounding, “YES!”
Getting turned into a puppet was bad enough. Discovering that he only possessed three fingers on each hand—and a detachable nose—was worse. Having Nina see him in all his felt puppet glory was much worse. Getting the stuffing knocked out of him by Were-Nina, being rushed to the operating room by Lorne, and being patched up by Fred was much, much worse.
But now he had reached the absolute nadir of his 250+ years of existence. He sat on the operating table—his little legs sticking straight out—as Winifred Burkle, scientist extraodinaire, clutched the results of his lab tests in her delicate hands. She tried to hide the look of shock on her face—a look that was all too apparent to his enhanced vampuppet sensibilities.
Fred smiled brightly.
Angel scowled.
Fred attempted to school her face into the serious, yet caring, expression appropriate for a doctor-puppet consultation.
Angel scowled harder. The barest hint of felt fangs peeped out of his lipless mouth.
“Well?” he growled.
“Well . . . the good news is that your condition isn't permanent. Either of them. Both of your conditions are temporary, but you might want to keep the first one for the duration of the second, because . . . well . . .”
Angel got to his feet and began to pace back and forth on the examination table. He made an heroic effort to stop glowering and speak pleasantly.
“Fred. How long will I be stuck like this?”
“Well . . . that's kinda up to you. The original spell will probably last an additional three or four days—a week, tops. But you might want to look into having the shamans extend it for a bit . . . a while . . . a few months or so . . .”
“And why would I want to remain a puppet for months?”
“Um. Because it'd probably be a mite less uncomfortable for you as a puppet? I don't know for sure yet, but I'm guessing . . .”
“What. Are. You. Trying. To. Tell. Me?”
“You're pregnant!”
“I'm what?”
“Pregnant?”
“That's impossible! I can't possibly be pregnant! I'm a—”
“Vampire? Yeah, I know. But so was Darla, and she—”
“Yes! She! Darla was a she! Technically, it shouldn't have been possible for a vampire to get pregnant at all, I mean between the petrified eggs and the cold, dead seed . . . but Darla was a female vampire and I'm . . . not. I may be a 'wee little puppet man', but the operative word is still MAN! I'm a three-fingered, felt, vampire . . . puppet . . . man!”
Angel sank down on the examining table, clutched his head with his three-fingered hands and moaned.
“What am I gonna do, Fred? I can't be pregnant! And how? When? Who? Back to how?”
Fred flipped through the papers on her clipboard.
“Well, as near as I can tell . . . and I don't have a clue yet as to how y'all managed it, but it looks like Nina is the father . . . mother . . . other parent. When she was in wolf-mode and you were all puppety, something . . . clicked. I can't explain it. I can tell you anything you wanna know about quantum physics, but Wes is the go-to guy for mysticism, and this sure seems pretty mystical to me. So, maybe he can come up with the 'how'. All I can tell you is . . . congratulations; y'all are going to be parents of . . . something.”
Yeah. Things definitely just got worse.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Angel was sitting under his desk, but he wasn't hiding. No, not hiding at all. He just liked sitting under his desk. It was much more comfortable than that uncharted expanse of king-size bed currently residing in his penthouse. The first night that he had been puppified, he'd slept in the closet. And not just because he didn't want anyone to discover his secret! He was actually quite comfortable in the closet. He'd taken a bath towel and folded it and placed it on the floor and would have been happy to stay in the closet . . .
The next best thing was sitting under his desk. He wasn't hiding and he wasn't brooding—he was just sitting and . . . contemplating. He had a right to contemplation, didn't he? The world's first pregnant, male vampuppet certainly deserved some contemplation time!
Angel sighed. He may be the first, but he'd be willing to wager that within five years, somehow there'd be a second pregnant, male vampuppet. Why not? Spike copied everything else he did. And then the two little vampuppet babies could grow up together, fight, shag and propagate . . .
This wasn't getting him anywhere! He had much bigger problems to deal with than Spike. Problems like . . . would having a baby make him look fat? And, could felt get stretch-marks? If so—would cocoa butter help?
There was a knock at the door. Angel ignored it. Maybe whoever it was would think he wasn't here and would just go away. Unless it was Spike. Spike would never 'just go away'. Spike would come right in and sprawl all over his chair and—
“Angel?”
Okay. Not Spike. Nina. But was he ready to face Nina yet? That'd be a definite 'No'. He needed more contemplation time. But when did what he needed ever matter? Nina came into the room and shut the door.
“Angel? I know you're in here. Would you please come out so we can talk?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
Nina sighed. “All right. Okay. You win.” She sat down in the visitor's chair and talked to the desk. “I really just came to apologize. I'm very sorry I mauled you.”
“And that's not all you did,” Angel muttered under his breath.
“I mean it. I'm sorry. I . . . like you and I'd never intentionally hurt you. I just wanted you to know that.” Nina got up to leave.
“Nina?”
“Yes?”
“It's okay. It wasn't your fault.”
“So, you're not mad?”
“Mad is such a relative word. 'Mad' as in angry? No, I'm not mad. 'Mad' as in Drusilla—that's a whole other kettle of fish!”
“Will you come out now?”
“No.”
“What are you doing under there anyway?”
“Thinking of names.”
“Names?”
“Irish names. I've been thinking about 'Maeve' or 'Maureen'. How about Sinéad? I was never especially fond of 'Bridgette' and 'Connor's' already taken. What do you think?”
“How about 'Bono'?”
“'Bono' isn't Irish!”
“He certainly is!”
“He?”
“The singer?”
“From Sonny and Cher?”
“No. U2.”
“Me, too? Yeah, I'm Irish. I suppose I could consider 'Liam' . . .”
“Angel, why are we talking about names?”
“For the baby.”
“What baby?”
“Our baby.”
“Our baby? Aren't you sort of rushing things? I mean, I like you and all, but we've just sort of decided that we might be interested in seeing each other—that is, if you ever come out from under the desk—so I think baby names are a long, long way in the future!”
“Not as long as you might think!”
“Pardon?”
“Nina, have you talked to Fred today?”
“No . . . I haven't even seen Fred.”
“Do us both a favor—go talk to Fred.”
“If I do, will you come out from under your desk?”
“Maybe.”
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There was something decidedly strange going on, Nina thought. Stranger than usual. Then again, to paraphrase Angel—strange is such a relative term. She'd taken a left turn onto Strange when she'd been bitten by a werewolf, and now she was smack-dab in the middle of Strangeville. She used to have a normal, reasonably happy life—she loved her art studies, enjoyed the comfort of staying with her sister and niece and thought monsters came from the fevered imaginations of movie makers.
Now, here she was—a werewolf, interested in a vampire who was currently a puppet, oh, and who just happened to run an evil law firm! Her life was so far beyond strange, she didn't even have the words for it. And, oh good, here comes another vampire—who used to be a ghost!
“Hey, Spike.”
“Dog—Nina. Have you seen Peaches?”
Nina smiled sweetly. At least he hadn't actually called her “dog-girl” to her face, and she could answer with perfect honesty, “No, Spike. I haven't seen him at all today. I'm looking for Fred.”
“Think she's in her lab. Well, then, if Angel's not around, guess I'll go pester Charlie-boy.”
Nina hurried toward Research and Development before she ran across Lorne or Wesley.
Fred looked extremely flustered to see her, but she dismissed Knox and guided Nina to her inner office. Fred poured Nina a cup of coffee and suggested she sit down.
“Fred, is there something going on with Angel? I mean, besides being a puppet and all? He's hiding under his desk again and he said I should come talk to you.”
“Oh, boy! I don't even know where to start. Yep. Definitely something going on with Angel . . . and with you, too, actually.”
“With me?”
“Nina, have you ever thought about being a parent?”
“Oh, no—not you, too!”
“Me, too?”
“Angel and I just had a weird discussion about baby names.”
Fred breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. So then you know.”
“Know what?”
“That Angel's pregnant.”
“Angel's what?”
“Okay . . . guess you didn't know.”
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Fred had convinced Angel that it would be better to call a meeting of the core group and tell them all at once—the ripping off the band-aid theory. If it had to be done, he guessed it would be easier to only have to go through it once . . . but he really resented the idea of having to do it at all. Wasn't being puppified enough?
Fred and Nina flanked his desk for support, and five additional chairs had been drawn up. Five chairs? Oh, crap! Lorne, Wesley, Harmony, Gunn and Spike arrived. Spike sprawled in the chair directly across from the desk and opened a can of beer.
Angel placed both three-fingered hands on the desk and glared. Spike raised a single eyebrow and took a long drink of his beer.
“I suppose you're wondering why I've called you here today. There's no good way to say this, so I'll just spit it out. You're aware that something mystical turned me into a puppet—”
“Well, yeah. We had actually noticed that you're a wee little puppet man—”
“Shut up, Spike”
“Just sayin'—not the major revelation you seemed to think it would be—”
If he still had teeth in puppet-mode, Angel would have gritted them as he tried to remember why Fred had thought it would be a good idea to include Spike in this meeting.
Fred came to his rescue. “Well, now, that's not the only mystical thing that happened. I don't know how to explain it—maybe Wesley can access further information—and we're still running tests, but Angel . . . that is, I . . . we just thought you should know . . . Angel's pregnant.”
Four mouths simultaneously dropped open as Wesley, Lorne, Gunn and Harmony stared at Fred in shock. Maniacal giggling came from Spike. Angel glared at him.
Spike bent over double, clutching his sides with laughter. “An arse baby! Bloody hell! Angel's havin' an arse baby!”
Angel launched himself across the desk in a flash, knocked Spike out of his chair and began pummeling him.
“I am not having an arse baby!”
Angel had Spike down on the floor and was repeatedly punching him in the face. Spike continued to giggle.
“Bugger! Always thought arse babies were just the fevered invention of bad slash writers!”
Angel yelled at the top of his lungs. “I am NOT having an arse baby! I don't even have an arse!”
Into the dead silence that followed that definitive statement, Spike raised an eyebrow and commented, “Well, that's that. Good on you, mate. Guess we're lookin' at a Cesarean, then?”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Borrowing the page entitled “Ignore It and Maybe It'll Go Away” from Xander Harris' Philosophy of Life, Angel attempted to go about his business. The business he would have gone about if he wasn't (a) a puppet or (b) . . . expecting. His team closed ranks to keep Eve totally in the dark—even Spike was on board. Angel wasn't sure if Spike's cooperation was due to a desire to protect him or just to foil Eve; but as long as Spike was helping rather than hindering, he guessed it didn't matter.
Lorne and Gunn scheduled as many phone conferences as possible, avoiding face-to-face meetings with clients.
Angel managed to hold onto his temper reasonably well, blowing up only once when Fred tried to explain that it wasn't really possible for him to have a dill-pickle-and-Good & Plenty licorice-with-salsa sandwich for lunch.
“Damn it, Fred, this is Wolfram and Hart! We have multi-dimensional contacts! The kitchen should be able to make a simple sandwich!”
“Well, sure, they could make it . . . but you can't eat it.”
“Why not? Spike eats all the time! He only needs blood to survive, but I know for a fact that he eats pizza and marshmallows and that onion thing—oh! Pizza and marshmallows . . . hmmmm . . .”
“Angel, I'm not disputing that Spike, um, enjoys a varied diet, but you can't—”
“I can so! I can eat whatever I want! I'm the CEO! If Spike can eat stupid junk, I can, too!”
“You don't have a digestive system! You can't eat! You're a puppet! I'm sorry, Angel, I'm not trying to make you feel bad or anything, but think—when's the last time you actually had any blood?”
“Well . . . uh . . .”
“See?”
“It's not fair!”
“No, it's not. I'm sorry, Angel.”
Angel's puppet eyes gleamed. “We could order it . . . and I could just . . . sniff it . . .”
“Sure! We could do that.”
“And then make Spike eat it!”
“Angel . . .”
“Vicarious thrill and all that? It'll be fun!”
So, Angel had gotten through the day, actually congratulating himself on how well things were working out, until seven p.m.—when he hung up the phone, turned pea-soup green and fell out of his chair. Lorne paged Dr. Gepetto immediately. Fred and Wesley arrived soon after the doctor.
“What happened? Is he all right?”
“Is it serious, doctor?”
Dr. Gepetto's wooden jaw made a clacking noise as he attempted to reassure them all.
“No cause for alarm. He's fine. Just a touch of morning sickness—well, technically, evening sickness, due to his nocturnal vampiric cycle. Make sure he finishes work by six o'clock for the next . . . oh, week or so, and it should pass.”
Angel groaned. Food cravings—now evening sickness. Being pregnant sucked!
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Angel spent a restless night in the closet. He hadn't slept well at all. There had been frequent rumblings and grumblings and disconcerting movements from the region of his stomach. Or—what would have been his stomach if he actually had a stomach which, according to Fred, he didn't. Because if he did, he'd have called down for the French toast with sauerkraut and honey that he'd been wishing for most of the night.
Angel got up and went into the bathroom. No use crying over missed French toast. He climbed up on the counter next to the sink, plugged in the Dustbuster and ran it all over his felt body. Morning ablutions complete, he listed back into the bedroom. He seemed to have developed a gait reminiscent of a drunken sailor—wobbling from side to side as he walked. No wonder Darla had sought out 'innocent' children. He was feeling the urge to retaliate for his condition on some of the diabolical little rugrats himself!
Angel sighed and began to dress. The next nasty surprise came when he discovered he couldn't button his shirt. Well, he was capable of buttoning his shirt, but the edges refused to meet. What was he going to do now?
He picked up the phone.
“Harmony?” he growled.
“Yeah, Boss?”
“I need you to go shopping.”
“Oooo! Shopping!”
“I need a new shirt.”
“A shirt . . . for you?”
“That's what I said!”
“Okaaaay . . . I'll see what I can do.”
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There was a tentative knock on Angel's door. He wobbled over to answer it in relief.
“Yeah?”
“Boss?”
“Did you get it?”
“Sort of. I had to go to the children's department, and there really wasn't a lot of selection in the 'husky' section. Sorry.”
Angel cracked open the door and stuck out a little felt hand.
“It's not your usual style, Boss . . .”
“I'm sure it's fine, Harmony. Just give it to me—I'm late already.”
“Um . . . okay.”
Harmony hooked the shopping bag over Angel's wrist and then dashed for the elevator. She didn't want to be anywhere near the penthouse when he discovered the red and white checked cowboy shirt with two-inch fringe on the yoke and plastic 'pearl' snap buttons. It was totally not her fault if fat little children had terrible taste in clothes! But she wasn't convinced that Angel would see it that way. And, it's not like they had a puppet maternity department, after all!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Angel was getting more irritated by the moment. Nothing was going right today, and on top of that, he seemed to be experiencing mood swings. Severe mood swings. What the hell was happening to him, and how could he make it stop? Maybe he should go talk to Lorne? Lorne would be sympathetic and supportive and non-judgmental. Lorne was the best! He was just the most caring, understanding person in the whole world! Lorne would make him feel all better . . .
Angel wobbled into Lorne's office and threw himself at Lorne, clutching him around the knees and sobbing uncontrollably. Lorne patted his head.
“There, there, little buckaroo . . . tell Uncle Lorne what's wrong.”
Angel launched into a recitation of all of his terrible experiences in the past twenty-four hours. Lorne continued to pat him and hummed under his breath.
“Dum da da dum da da dum da da dum da da dum dum . . .”
“What are you humming, Lorne?”
“Oh, nothing in particular.”
Angel pulled away and planted his hands on his hips.
“It's Bonanza! You're humming the theme from Bonanza!”
“Well . . . maybe. It wasn't on purpose, Angelcakes! It was just sort of subliminally triggered by the shirt—”
“Trigger? Did you just call me a horse?”
“No! I didn't say you were Trigger! I said it was 'triggered' . . .”
With a swirl of fringe, Angel turned and began to stalk/wobble to the door, when he suddenly gripped his middle and bent over double with a loud groan.
“Sweet potato! What's wrong?”
“I (gasp) don't know! It feels (groan) like I swallowed a vat of (scream) holy water!”
“Oh lord, I think you're in labor.”
“Well (pant pant) do something! (moan) Make it stop!”
Lorne hit speed-dial for Fred, who promised to locate Dr. Gepetto and meet them in the lab after giving her entire department the rest of the day off.
Lorne scooped Angel up in his arms and hurried to Research and Development.
Noticing the early exodus of the Science Department staff, Spike guessed that delivery was imminent. He snagged the keys to the Viper and roared off, singing a punk version of a bizarre amalgam of “I'm Your Puppet/Having My Baby” at the top of his lungs. He came to a screeching halt in the—luckily—empty garage adjoining Nina's sister's house, bolted out of the car, and pounded on the kitchen door.
Nina hurried to the door. She had just returned from the studio and was still wearing her work clothes. She flung open the door to behold an obnoxiously gleeful Spike.
“Get a move on, Dog-girl! 's D-day, innit? You're about to become a mum. Don't wanna miss all the fun!”
Nina looked at her paint-stained sweatshirt and clay-spattered jeans. “Just give me a minute to change—”
“No time. Peaches was in the throes of labor when I came to get you an' puppet constitution bein' what it is, we'd better go or we'll miss the whole party.”
Nina frowned as she hurriedly slid into the car. “You're really enjoying Angel's whole situation, aren't you?”
Spike grinned. “Bloody right, I am. Most fun I've had in years! Angel's spent nearly a century pissin' and moanin' an' brooding 'bout what a right bastard he'd been, an' how all the good he's tried to do can never make up for the bad. An' it prob'ly won't. He needs to lighten up an' stop takin' himself so bloody seriously. So, I figure the sheer humiliation factor of bein' turned into a puppet and then impregnated 's the surest path to redemption he's ever gonna get.”
Nina looked at him in disbelief. “So, you see Angel's situation as a growth experience and you're altruistically glad for him?”
“Well . . . yeah. Plus, it's bloody funny, innit?”
Nina rolled her eyes. “Well, whatever your motives, thanks for coming to get me, Spike.”
“Thought somebody should—an' everybody else was tied up helpin' the wee little puppet mother.”
Spike pulled the Viper into the empty slot in the garage and he and Nina raced for the elevator. He pressed the button for the upper mezzanine and they hurried to Fred's office with its glass-walled view of the lab.
Nina gripped the edge of Fred's desk with white-knuckled hands. Spike hopped up to sit on the desk to assure a good view. An unearthly series of screams and moans penetrated the glass. Nina blanched.
“Just (moan) get it (groan) OUT (scream) of me!”
“Come on, Angel—breathe!” Nina murmured.
“He won't y'know. Breathe. Not sayin' he can't—I do it all the time. Just that he'll never even think of it.”
Nina began panting, Lamaze style, in encouragement.
“Hey! You're not goin' into wolf-mode, are you?”
“No, you jerk! I'm just trying to help him breathe.”
More groans and yells reached them.
Fred picked up a scalpel and made an incision at the base of the yellow felt mound that had popped the snaps of even the 'husky' shirt.
Dr. Gepetto's wooden hands carefully parted white stuffing and Fred reached in.
Nina squeezed her eyes shut and gripped Spike's arm.
“It's a puppet! No . . . it's a wolf. Oh, bloody hell! I'm nephew to a soddin' Beanie Baby!”
Wolfgang Bono Ash7 ½ ounces
8 inches (nose-to-tail)
The family requests no gifts
(With the exception of cash, or checks made out to “Spike”)
The End
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