Author: Meltha
Rating: FRT
Feedback: Yes, thank you. Meltha
Spoilers: For season 5 of AtS and Labyrinth.
Summary: These fics were inspired by a challenge to write fics based on icons I use on lj. The icon for each fic is at the top of the story.
Disclaimer: All characters from Angel: The Series are owned by Mutant Enemy (Joss Whedon), a wonderfully creative company whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Characters from Sesame Street are owned by Jim Henson Industries and the Children's Television Workshop, and are also used without profit intended. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.

Sometimes things went wrong in Angel’s life. That was an understatement, yet it was also one of the few things he could state with absolute certainty was true.

However, very rarely did things go so wrong that he was actually made of felt. Sighing, he locked his office door and turned on the TV. Maybe it had something to do with being a puppet, but he felt an undeniable craving to watch Sesame Street. Then again, it could have something to do with the fact he had begun occasionally tuning in to that zany, bright-sunshine world some 30 years ago, and even in the worst times he’d gotten a smile.

An old Bert and Ernie sketch was playing, classic Henson and Oz, and as Ernie swiped Bert’s nose to complete his statue of his old buddy because he had run out of clay, he let out a whoop of laughter in spite of himself.

It wasn’t until he realized he wasn’t the only one laughing that he noticed he wasn’t alone.

“Quite a family resemblance between the two of you: fleece, glowering expression, prominent forehead,” Spike giggled.

“You picked the lock,” Angel said with a sigh, not asking a question.

“Well, yeah,” he said, plopping down next to him on the leather couch and propping his boots on the table. “Can’t go breezin’ through walls anymore. Only bit of that I miss.”

“Leave me alone,” the puppet answered, sinking his head into his four-fingered hands.

“Nah,” Spike said. “I want to see if Oscar hits on Maria again.”

Angel peeked out from between his stubby fingers. “What?”

“Oh, please. You don’t see the sexual tension between those two? I don’t care if she did marry Luis. Oscar still has a thing for that bird, and I don’t mean the big yellow one,” Spike said, producing a can of beer from one of his duster’s pockets. “Course, she’s got a thing for old green, too. Wonder if they’ll ever admit it.”

Angel just stared at him, dumb-founded

“Oh, and Angel?” Spike said, looking at him very seriously.

“Yeah?”

Quick as lightning, Spike swiped the nose off of Angel’s face and brandished it high above his head.

“Got your nose, Puppetman!” he yelled as he ran out the door

As Angel pelted after him down the hallway, the employees of Wolfram & Hart may have heard Spike laughing in a strangely rasping gasp, and while some of them may have heard Angel scream, “Ernie! Bring that back!” they were all far too polite (and frightened) to ever mention it… except in the breakroom. Daily. For the next five months.

William had died a virgin. He hadn’t even come close to having his honor sullied, soiled, dented, dinged, or even mildly dusty prior to Drusilla. Granted, in the reign of Victoria, that was far more common than not for a young man of his age, but it had still been a source of wild laughter and incessant taunting from Angelus who, it seemed, had engaged in debauching a bevy of town beauties shortly after he’d gotten out of nappies.

Not that Dru complained, mind you. Wailed like a banshee, yes, but no complaining, no sir. But occasionally, in the back of his mind, he wondered if that was just because she was insane. After all, she enjoyed conversing with umbrella stands and hat racks. How well could she really rank his abilities considering she thought that tomatoes made lovely shoes?

Granted, there had been a few times with dear old Darla, and she’d said absolutely nothing at all. No compliments, certainly, but no insults either. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

Then there had been Harmony. She was nothing if not enthusiastic, which was why he hadn’t tried to stake her until the Ring of Amarra debacle. Sometimes she seemed a bit too enthusiastic, truth be told. Sleeping with Harmony was like shagging a cheerleader in the middle of a pep rally. She was excited as all get out, but sometimes it was difficult to figure out exactly what she was excited about. He got the distinct impression he could have had the sex appeal of Elmer Fudd and she still would have squealed at exactly the same times with equal enthusiasm.

Then, Buffy. She didn’t like much about him, but damned if she didn’t like him in the sack. Still, every single time she wound up running out the front door as though she’d just come out of a drunken stupor and realized she’d woke up in bed with a yak, and a particularly smelly yak at that. That was a deeply deflating experience.

Anya and Spike had sex exactly once, and she’d been depressed the whole time. Granted, he’d been depressed too, so the situation didn’t exactly bode well for party hats and new and interesting uses for Cheez Whiz to begin with. Still… she looked like she’d just seen her money go down the drain, and he hadn’t even been able to raise her mood even a tiny bit.

Therefore, it was understandable why Spike would have one or two, well, small doubts regarding his general abilities. But now, at long last, he was able to put his remaining fears to rest.

“So, tell me, baby,” he purred as he ran a finger up and down her blue spine. “Was it good for you?”

Illyria tipped her head to a nearly impossible angle, considering his question.

“You are impudent and a mere seed of slime and filth,” she said in her disdainful voice. “When I was at my full strength, a single thought of mine would have crushed you into oblivion and rendered you…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Spike sighed, flopping onto his back and staring at the ceiling. “You’d kill me and mash my bones and pick your teeth with my spleen...”

“Spleens do not work well as dental implements.”

“…but I’m asking you if it was any good at all!” he yelled.

Illyria blinked twice.

“My body is not ill-pleased,” she finally stated.

“’Not ill-pleased?’” Spike repeated.

“It was… enjoyable to some extent,” she relented.

Coming from Illyria, that could mean only one thing. With a roguish smile, he realized he was a sex god.