Title: Headlights in the Dark

Author: Jedi Buttercup

Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Post-Season 5 for B:tVS; pre-movie-ish for The Fast and the Furious (2001)

Summary: B:tVS, FatF. Agreeing to do a bit of clandestine goods trafficking between Sunnydale and Los Angeles in the summer of 2001 probably wasn't the brightest idea Spike had ever had. 900 words.

Notes: I know this is a bit ridiculous, but I saw this TTHFFA prompt, and then I noticed where the timelines converged, and then I snickered, and that was that.

In hindsight, Spike would eventually admit, agreeing to do a bit of clandestine goods trafficking between Sunnydale and Los Angeles in the summer of 2001 probably wasn't the brightest idea he'd ever had. His previous venture in the city-- that bit of misadventure with the Ring of Amarra-- had been more aggravation than it was worth, and had put him on the radar of Angel's band of do-gooders. And the so-called Doc he'd signed on to run cargoes for was more than a bit cagey about just what was in all those "Panasonic DVD" boxes. If anything had gone wrong with the contents, or if Angel had ever realized he was passing through, the results would likely not have been pretty.

But at the time-- it kept him from lurking in his crypt feeling the absence of the Slayer like a stake to the chest, and brought in money for the Niblet while her mum's estate was being settled. He could do a bit of patrol with whichever Scoobies felt like risking their lives of an evening, then take a load down while they slept the sleep of the righteous and return before the dawn chased all bad little vampires to their beds. It was a win-win arrangement for everybody involved.

...Until the night a trio of zippy little imports swarmed up while he was taking a rare return load back up to the Hellmouth. The cars were painted dark, but made no pretense at stealth; the neon-lit undercarriages plainly announced their drivers' intentions. Spike didn't bother to slow down when one finally pulled up in front of him and tapped its brakes; he grinned and hit the gas instead.

He didn't actually aim to hit the car; if he had, the bastard would've got what he deserved for taking his life in his hands in demon country after dark, but Spike wasn't keen to risk firing the chip. He just wanted them out of his way-- and the fear in their expressions would go a long way toward compensation. A bloke had to get his fun somehow. The drivers knew what they were doing, though; when he slewed the wheel to the sides, the pair flanking him dodged back or under his load, and the one in front matched his speed.

....Then the passenger of the lead car fired a bloody harpoon at his windshield, and hooked the safety glass like a trout.

Spike could hardly believe his luck. She was gift wrapping herself as a midnight snack to any vampire who happened to be driving along, and he couldn't even properly take advantage of it! He mashed his foot on the brake, wrinkling his nose as his tyres squealed on the asphalt, and brought the lorry to a halt so as not to risk frying his own brain if he had to throw anyone back out the window.

He didn't have long to wait. The pursuing cars squealed into their own tight turns and came zooming back; the slight woman who'd fired the harpoon gun was still leaning out the passenger window of the lead car, this time carrying what looked like a tranquiliser rifle.

Spike growled at the sight; he'd had bloody enough of people trying to neutralise him for their own benefit. Not that your average tranquiliser would work properly on someone without a working circulatory system, of course; the hijackers were in for a surprise. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and deliberately brought out his fang face, wondering if any of the buggers would catch a clue.

The woman with the rifle didn't hesitate; she lifted it to her shoulder, took aim, and fired from several car-lengths away. Spike plucked the dart out and threw it right back with a snarl; it would have knocked any ordinary human flat on his back, but lacking mystical ingredients, Spike was unaffected. He heard a quick spate of Spanish profanity as the woman moved to reload-- but then the driver reached across the car, snagging her other arm and murmuring something back to her.

Dark eyes fixed on Spike's golden ones then, staring across the gulf between the vehicles. The driver was all bald head and bared biceps and street-tough muscle, but despite appearances, he wasn't entirely devoid of grey matter; he glared at Spike for several seconds, then lifted a walkie talkie to his mouth and loudly told the other drivers there's something weird about this load; let's go after the other one instead.

What with the delay, Spike barely made it back to Sunnydale before the sun broke over the horizon, and Doc was not best pleased by the condition of the lorry. That was the last time that summer he asked Spike to run a load.

He didn't entirely mind, as it happened; Giles had caught on and started asking where the money in Joyce's biscuit jar was coming from, and that was a conversation he didn't care to have above once. But he did wonder what had become of the hijacker and his merry band, and whether they'd taken the warning or eventually bit into another nut they couldn't crack.

He wouldn't be surprised if they hadn't; he hadn't exactly torn Doc's card up in his wallet, after all.

(But that would be another story altogether. And one he wouldn't dress up for the Slayer's little sis as a bedtime tale.)

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