Laura Stone (stoney321) wrote,
Laura Stone
stoney321

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Happy Friday! And more crack-fic.

It is cold, but the sun is out and the tank is clean. I have a few more moving trips planned today with my friend, and her new place is just SO ADORABLE. It's about the size of her old living and dining room put together, but that's just how ridiculously large her old house was. My friend is coming back to life with every box unpacked, and it's awesome to see. Today is the day we move her little kids in to their new rooms, so it should be... exciting. (They're doing a great job of making the kids feel loved and wanted, so I have high hopes for today being a day of smiles.)

Enough of that, I'm sure you're thinking. On to the crack! I'm finding it ridiculously easy to crossover Scrubs and Angel, which... I know. That makes no sense. BUT SOMEHOW IT DOES. and I'm re-writing The Wizard of Oz with the cast of Friends, but that's neither here nor there.


Others in this prompt group can be found here.



for pluckyantihero

Untitled Scrubs/Angel Crack-Fic

*******

Spike checked his previously broken nose again, straightened the rear-view mirror and began to slow his De Soto. Getting blood from any Sunnydale hospital was evidently out of the question for the time being. Spike pulled his car behind some dumpsters and looked up at the glowing sign on the building: Sacred Heart.

This would do just fine.

Back in Sunnydale, Buffy had caught Spike buying several bags of blood at a local hospital. She had decked him several times in the nose, and they weren't those "I want to shag you, so I'll hit you until I stop thinking that way, oh wait, it just turns me on because I'm a bad naughty slayer inside" sort of punching. So, he decided to respect her wishes, in a manner of speaking, by broadening his search for human blood. L.A. it was.

He leaned against his car smoking, casing the joint. If they had security like Sunnydale General, then this should be fairly easy, but it didn't hurt to do your homework.

"Those'll kill you."

"It's alright. Already dead." Spike flicked the cigarette onto the asphalt and turned to stare down the face of whoever dared--.

His face was directly in the center of a blue jump-suited chest. A chest belonging to a very tall individual, apparently. An individual with a decidedly disinterested expression at the sight of him.

"Huh." The tall man chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, digesting what Spike had just revealed. "Bet it was that squirrelly doctor with the girly hair-do that offed you, right?"

Spike blinked. "No. Been dead a long time. Vampire."

"Janitor," the Janitor hitched something higher on his shoulder. "I'll give you fifty bucks if you turn him."

"Deal. Wait, I can't."

"What do you mean you can't? Is it because he's a guy? Because believe me, I don't think Doctor Acula will care. A little iffy, that one."

Spike sighed and lit another smoke. "No, I don't care who I get my dinner from, you're all just take-out on legs to me. Government put a bloody chip in my head, gives me a zap every time I go for the kill. So. I can't." He inhaled deeply, then - unnecessarily coughed out, "Doctor who?"

Janitor had a sour expression. "Dr. Acula. Some name he gives to himself in a movie I taped over. Spy work, you know how it is. So, you're saying the government put a chip in your head? Because I have an army that can take 'em out. Maybe. We have to get organized first. See, Phil is sick of working for peanuts, and I tell him, 'Phil, you're a squirrel. Of course you work for peanuts.' Pfft."

Spike had flashes of Drusilla for a moment. "Right. Say, you wouldn't happen to know where they keep the blood bags, do you?"

Janitor dropped the bag from his shoulder, pulled a second trash bag from behind him and tore the top open. "Like these?"

"Mate, what the bloody hell were you doing with a rubbish bag filled with blood?"

The guy shrugged. "It was easier to bring it out here than lug them all up to the second floor. Oh, note to the wise. Don't try and use the bathrooms on Two. Haven't been touched in years."

"Yeah, I'll be sure to miss that," was the dry response. "Why don't you hand over that bag of O neg, or whatever, I'm not picky, and if you have any extras later, you give me a ring?"

"I know. Why don't I give you this bag and you give me a few C notes?"

"How about you just give me the blood and I don't kill you?"

Janitor pointed at him, "Aha, you can't kill me or your head'll go off like a bug zapper. Tell you what. Get me a shark, and we'll call it even."

"A... shark? What on earth for?"

"Scooter's afraid of them. I'm seeing a slippery shower fiasco in his future."

Spike thought for a minute. "How about a shark-headed demon?"

"Even better. Deal."

They shook hands. Spike climbed into the De Soto, several gallons richer, and shot a quick glance back at the strange, blue-jumpered man. The guy looked like he was picking his teeth with a knife. Attached to a... wrench? Spike made a mental note to be wary around that one.

*************







For dlgood who comes up with some of the best crack-fic ideas EVER. (For those not in the know: The Worthless Peons") And, this one just ends, but again - I'm just trying to have fun, not challenge Proust. Or make this a multi-chaptered affair. :D

****
Gimmie a C - A Bouncy C


Fred had said it was only a mild fever, but Lorne didn't take any chances when it came to being sick. Plus, the tension in the hotel with Princess C, her hunky little love-muffin, and ol' Broody Brow was tight enough to hit a high C. There was a private hospital on the south-end of town that had served in the past. Translation: if you had cash, they didn't seem to notice pesky little things like your skin being green. And there was that piece of Tenderloin Doctor with the smart mouth that had a lovely tenor just waiting to be coaxed out.

Lorne pulled his Fedora down low and signed Fred in to Admitting, then went on the prowl for a drink. He doubted he'd find anything alcoholic, but sitting in plastic chairs in rooms of mauve and sea-foam green was definitely not his style. Plus, the floral sofa clashed with his zoot suit of royal blue. He turned a corner and stopped dead in his tracks. What on earth?

He turned down the collar on his camel-hair trench and cocked his ear. Oh, someone had some pipes. Someone had some pipes and something good was in store for them. He crept along the hallway, passing a nervous little blonde doctor who was stammering instructions to a nurse. Said nurse chided Shy Blonde who in turn whipped around and Eva Brauned an order to a tall bit of beefcake. Mee-yow.

Again with the fabulous singing, somewhere ahead.

Lorne blocked all other noise and tried to find the delicious set of pipes working through the second stanza of "Why Do Fools Fall In Love," while mentally answering, because we love the hurt, sugar pie. And if I don't find that voice... Aha!

Lorne stopped in front of a broom closet. There was definitely some early 60's Motown happening behind that door.

"I'll take the Broom Closet for a thousand, Chuck!"

Lorne pulled the door open and found four men, nerds to be exact, but hey. Who wasn't a little nerdy? Okay, they were more on the "taking your mom to prom" end of the nerd scale than the "I can do my geometry homework without extra help" end, but that voice!

"Who's the leader of the club that's gonna be wealthy?"

A balding and nervous man blinked several times and gulped, "I beg your pardon, but this is a closed rehearsal."

"Not anymore, my glistening cupcake. Hit a few bars of something. Anything."

The man, Ted, gaped for a bit then pulled a pitch pipe from his front pocket, hit a clear C, and cleared his throat. "Hit it, guys."

The three men in various stages of hair loss and eye-glass thickness inhaled and harmonized, "Boom, bee, ba boom, bee ba boom, bee ba boom, bee ba-"

Ted burst out clearly, "Spiderman! Spiderman. Builds a web where ever he can..."

Lorne's eyes widened. This was him. "I love it. I elle oh vee ee love it. Ted? Is that your name? I'm getting a large, elderly woman with corns barking orders to a 'Ted' for massages and cat food. My condolences, by the way. Oh, you shiny-pated dreambo-, uh... You! You are going to be rich, did you know it?"

"No. Does Dr. Kelso leave everything to me in his will?"

Lorne, picking up Ted's mental images in his emotional state, saw a white lab coat floating on a large body of water's surface, one final "bloop" from a bubble, and a smile from Ted.

"Uh, no. But nice visual. Very creepy, I won't sleep for weeks, thanks. No, you little hairless wonder, that voice! Those pipes! We're going to take you on the road. Say, what do you call yourselves?"

The four men sang out in barbershop harmonies, drawing out the last word in scale, "The worthless, the worthless, the worthless, The Worthless.... Peons."

"Uh... That's not working for me. Or you. Also, tall, bald and spectacled?" He pointed at one of the Peons, "If you bring her flowers, she'll say yes."

The Peons harmonized, "Way to go, Paul!"

Lorne whipped his head back to Ted. "Sing that again?"

Ted belted, "Paul," just as clear as a bell.

"Okay, so someone does die - a white coat someone. And that's what gets you out of your funk, and not the fun Bootsy Collins, sequin-moonboot funk."

Ted gasped, "I've waited," he swallowed thickly, "for years."

An older man with a gold stethoscope walked around the corner, his eyes glued to a clipboard in his hand. "Ted, I'm going to need you to run out to my dry cleaners and pick up my suits. Oh, and don't forget to mail that check for Quang Tri's tuition, while you're out."

Dr. Kelso was completely oblivious to the fact that Ted was one, standing in a broom closet with other hospital support staff and two, that there was a green-faced, horned demon standing next to him.

"Bob?"

Dr. Kelso looked up sharply at the use of his Christian name by a subordinate.

"I'm not going to do that today. You can get your own," Ted held the doorway for support to get the last bit out and swallowed thickly before continuing, "laundry and pay for your love child's college tuition this time. I'm going to be famous."

"Ted, you know who has two thumbs and doesn't give a crap about your newfound spine?" Kelso shot double thumbs at himself. "Bob Kelso. Now get moving."

"I won't. He's going to help build my career. Just as soon as you die."

"That's just what my wife said years ago about her physical therapist that moonlighted as a plate-spinner, but who's got a job, and who's sitting at home surrounded by broken china and waiting for our once-a-year love-making?" Again, he shot double thumbs at himself. "Wait. Who's going to help you?"

Ted pointed his own thumb sharply at Lorne. "This guy."

Kelso did a double take, Lorne smiled and waggled his fingers in a friendly hello, and doffed his Fedora. Kelso promptly fell over, clutching his chest. Ted and the other Peons stepped over his body, hooked their arms in Lorne's elbows and led him to the front doors. A few interns walked past Kelso, and a large tall man in a blue jumpsuit slapped a mop on Kelso's face and proceeded to clean the floor. But mostly Kelso's face.

Lorne kept stealing looks over his shoulder to see if anyone was going to help, all while fielding answers to Ted.

"So, I imagine us as a sort of Big Bopper meets N'Sync. I'm more the Justin-type. How many chicks do you think we'll get?" Ted mopped his sweaty head, then tried to flick his hair over his shoulders, apparently forgetting he was mostly bald.

Lorne muttered a few answers before looking back and seeing Hunky Curly Haired Tenor giving mouth to mouth to Kelso. And making gagging sounds.

*********
Tags: fic, fic: random meetups, funny fic, scrubs fic
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