![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Automated Utopia
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fenderlove
Rating: This chapter is rated PG though the overall story is rated R.
Summary: This fanfiction is set in a Victorian SteamPunk Alternate Universe in which inventions such as Charles Babbage's Difference Engine and the harnessing of steam-power have launched a technological revolution far earlier in history. The time is 1885, and Angel Investigations is working for Scotland Yard. A new case involving a missing artifact from the British Museum and a demonic cult sends the wayward detectives on a whirlwind adventure to reclaim the object before all is lost.
Warning: No warnings for this chapter.
Pairings: Spike/Fred, Spike/Angel.
(Banner by me.)
Automated Utopia :: Chapter One.
In the cramped confines of a workshop, the cacophony of sensory assaults that were trapped within the walls lined with overflowing shelves of gears and spare parts would rattle the concentration of anyone unlucky enough to find themselves forced to operate in such conditions. The nearby boiler hissed and whined as it sent steam up through rickety pipes to the rest of the equipment as well as the house above the basement atelier, while a jungle of tubes and pumps of various machinery blew great puffs of rather foul-smelling fumes creating a near-caustic haze that appeared greasy and tangible in the gaslight. Fortunately, the sole labourer was too lost in his own toiling to notice such distractions even with his preternatural senses.
Hunkered over a workbench, telescopic spectacles perched on the end of his nose, Spike was attempting to complete his latest project. He held his hands close the table lantern, not leaving the perfection of his work up to his vampiric senses. The tiny precision screwdriver completely disappeared in his large hand as he carefully bolted the two halves of the small object together. Spike abstained from breathing, fearing that any unnecessary movement might cause irreparable damage to the delicate object. Both halves finally secured, he rummaged through the contents of his side-bag scattered onto the worktable. Finding a small spool of copper gage-wire, he set about securing a gear, no more than half an inch in diameter, to the object's center. Using a ball-bur and a chase hammer, he created openings in the bolts to loop the wire through and attached the gear. Perhaps, he thought as he set his work aside and took a few moment's stretch, that his efforts might have been of better use elsewhere, but it was after-all a gift and no one upstairs would miss his company.
Tossing the spectacles aside, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed as he took stock of his incomplete pet-project- a hair barrette made entirely from perforated steel bands shaped to form a perfect bow. It was still lacking something, but Spike could not figure out what it needed. His first thought was to paint it, but he knew the lady for which it was intended would appreciate the naked metal more than some gaudy enamel work. Still, colour was what the barrette lacked. Quickly dumping out the rest of the bits and bobs stored in his side-bag, Spike searched until he found a button, a cherry-red glass bead held in a gold setting most likely from a lady's jacket. The final touch was secured after another hour of work. He barely had time to admire the fruits of his toil before the sound of heels clattering on the steps leading to the basement sent him into a flurry of stuffing the diaspora of his accumulated miscellany back into his leather bag, the metal barrette finding safer refuge in his vest pocket.
Miss Winifred Burkle descended the staircase with some difficulty, having to hold up her skirts to prevent falling while maintaining her grip on the large leather trunk in her arms, her oval-framed glasses askew on her face. Spike quickly wiped the grease and oil off his hands and went to her aid, taking the trunk under one arm and holding out his hand to help her down the last few stairs from the landing.
"I did not expect to find you down here," Fred smiled, smoothing out her skirts. "Charles and Wesley are upstairs in the drawing room."
Setting the trunk on the workbench, Spike gave her wink and replied, "I've been banned from the dining room, parlor, and drawing room until I "start wearing a jacket like a proper gentleman,"" with a near-perfect impersonation of Angel's Irish brogue.
Fred laughed, stifling it with her hand, "I'm sure Angel didn't mean it." Taking a small key from the purse attached to her short apron, she unlocked the trunk taking out several different sizes of rifle stock. "Since you're already here, would you mind helping me put these into the inventory?"
Giving a quick nod, Spike went to the catalogue cabinet and pulled out a stack of blank index cards. He brought them over to her and asked, "Are you still working on the steam rifle?"
"Yes, I'm afraid all my prototypes either developed warped barrels from the heat or wood-rot in the stocks from condensation from the miniature boiler," she said with a little furrow in her brow as she plucked a pencil from the box on the workbench and wrote the first stock's model and length on the top card of the stack.
Spike's hand dipped into his vest pocket, feeling the cool metal of the ornament beneath his fingertips. He searched for some way to broach giving it to her without seeming too forward. "I'm sure you'll figure it out, Miss Fred. You completed the aether cannon, and I seem to remember quite a few exclamations of "I'll never get this to work" from a certain lady before it was finished."
Fred looked up at him, her face quite pretty and cheerful in the glow of the table lantern. Her smile made him flush though he told himself it was just from the heat of the room, his hand clenched tighter on the barrette in his pocket. "I thought we discussed that you were not to call me "Miss Fred" anymore as long as I stopped calling you "Mr. Spike?"" she said, her voice light, as she pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose.
"Well, we two had come to the agreement, yes," Spike smirked, leaning down on his elbows on the workbench, watching her deceptively frail-looking hands scrawl the information for the last stock in the trunk in a flowing, curling script that really only she could read without effort. He continued with his patented very-serious expression, "But you see, Mr. Angel thinks that it is inappropriate for me to refer to you in such an informal manner being that I am the lowliest ensign on this little ship, and until I learn my place and act as deemed appropriate by my betters, my movements within the house are somewhat restricted, which is why I am to take meals in my room, am not allowed to touch Mr. Angel's cigars nor his various libations in the liquor cabinet, and I am expressly forbidden from having contact with you without having a proper chaperone present. All of these things are always in the forefront of my mind, and I seriously and astutely keep to these tenants."
"Is that so?" Fred leaned forward on her hands, her own very-serious expression failing as she could barely keep the corners of her mouth from turning up in a smile.
"Surely, which is why if you were to look in my room you would definitely not find a hidden cash of forty-year-old Tawny Port and a box of cherry-tipped cigarillos beneath my bed," and with extra vehemence he added, "And there definitely are not any macaroons in my desk drawer under the blotter."
Fred patted his hand solemnly and said matter-of-factly, "Of course not, because we both know that while certain vampires who will remain nameless have a sweet-fang, the one that owns this house does not believe in such frivolity."
They both began laughing, overcome by their own silliness. While Fred respected Angel in the highest regard, she was quite amused that his attempts to "civilise" Spike, who was already quite civilised in her estimation when he was left to his own devices, bordered on the absurd, which ultimately led to Spike doing the exact opposite of what he was instructed to do out of spite. It would be more prudent, Fred thought, for Angel to ask Spike to do the opposite thing in order to obtain whatever end he wanted. However, she quickly reminded herself that letting her mind wander to the machinations of human- or more appropriately, vampire interactions would be best suited for another time when there was not work to be done. Having tagged and re-packed the rifle stocks into their trunk, she toted them to the sidewall to find them a place on one of the already excessively-full sills. After several minutes of searching, she finally managed to force her burden between a jar of filaments and a crate of cable reels.
"I believe my organizational skills could use just the teeniest bit of improvement," she remarked as she returned to the stack of index cards to record where the stocks resided for future reference.
Gathering some courage, Spike pulled the barrette out of his pocket, knowing that he might not have another chance to have any private discourse with Fred. "I think it feels very homey in here with the enormous boiler and all the smoke and that odd country fair smell..."
Fred gave a rather unlady-like snort through her nose as she filed the cards into the large oaken catalogue, "I still cannot figure out where that's coming from- " She was surprised when she felt Spike's hand brush a loose curl away from her forehead. She turned to him with a puzzled expression , but she found herself leaning into his touch for the slightest moment. Very gently, Spike fastened the metal ribbon in her hair. Letting her fingers gingerly touch the metallic object, she smiled and turned towards the mirror hanging over the washstand in the corner. Wiping away some of the film on the glass, she was able to admire the ornament, the red bead glinting at its center in lamplight.
"I overheard Wesley say that your birthday was fast approaching, so I thought... I thought I could make you something," Spike fidgeted, trying to fight off his embarrassment, partially worried that she would not like the gift but also worried that she might think he was a bit light in his swank yet second-hand boots for making something so feminine.
"It's beautiful!" She gave him a quick hug and a small peck on the cheek. At first, Spike had to mentally congratulate himself on picking materials for the barrette that really complimented Fred's colouring, but all coherent thought left his brain as he felt her warm lips caress against his face even for that brief moment. "Now we match," Fred smiled, touching the facsimile medal pinned to Spike's grey knit scarf. The medal was made from spare watch pieces and wire, fashioned to look like a dirigible. "You're so creative; I could never make things like these."
Spike felt the colour rise into the tips of his ears as he tried to force the silly grin off his face. "But you are creative. Look at all this," he gestured around the room to all the prototype weaponry and gadgets. "You take the pieces and make things that actually function. Mine don't do much at all."
It was Fred's turn to blush, ducking her head shyly. "At least you don't have to worry about yours blowing up the house to cinders."
They shared another laugh, meeting each other's eyes only briefly, his hand reaching out to softly take hers. Fred's lips parted, but whatever she was going to say was interrupted by the sudden sound of the door leading to the basement opening. Spike quickly let go of her hand, raking his fingers through his two-toned hair.
"Miss Burkle, are you down there?" From their position in the basement, the only thing visible of the owner of the voice to Spike and Fred was a pair of bright purple leather boots. Lorne continued down the stairs, being overly careful to stay away from the walls and anything that might sully his fastidiously orchestrated accouterment. He looked pleasantly surprised to see that Fred was not alone. "Oh, I didn't realize the teacake was with you." Spike gave him a glare, but Lorne pretended not to notice and continued, "No matter, I suppose Angel will want you to hear this as well." He clasped his green hands together and gave a short bow, "Your presences are requested upstairs. We've just received word over the Aethernet that our services are needed on a case."
x-posted at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
darker_spike & nekid_spike.
Author:
fenderloveRating: This chapter is rated PG though the overall story is rated R.
Summary: This fanfiction is set in a Victorian SteamPunk Alternate Universe in which inventions such as Charles Babbage's Difference Engine and the harnessing of steam-power have launched a technological revolution far earlier in history. The time is 1885, and Angel Investigations is working for Scotland Yard. A new case involving a missing artifact from the British Museum and a demonic cult sends the wayward detectives on a whirlwind adventure to reclaim the object before all is lost.
Warning: No warnings for this chapter.
Pairings: Spike/Fred, Spike/Angel.
(Banner by me.)
Automated Utopia :: Chapter One.
In the cramped confines of a workshop, the cacophony of sensory assaults that were trapped within the walls lined with overflowing shelves of gears and spare parts would rattle the concentration of anyone unlucky enough to find themselves forced to operate in such conditions. The nearby boiler hissed and whined as it sent steam up through rickety pipes to the rest of the equipment as well as the house above the basement atelier, while a jungle of tubes and pumps of various machinery blew great puffs of rather foul-smelling fumes creating a near-caustic haze that appeared greasy and tangible in the gaslight. Fortunately, the sole labourer was too lost in his own toiling to notice such distractions even with his preternatural senses.
Hunkered over a workbench, telescopic spectacles perched on the end of his nose, Spike was attempting to complete his latest project. He held his hands close the table lantern, not leaving the perfection of his work up to his vampiric senses. The tiny precision screwdriver completely disappeared in his large hand as he carefully bolted the two halves of the small object together. Spike abstained from breathing, fearing that any unnecessary movement might cause irreparable damage to the delicate object. Both halves finally secured, he rummaged through the contents of his side-bag scattered onto the worktable. Finding a small spool of copper gage-wire, he set about securing a gear, no more than half an inch in diameter, to the object's center. Using a ball-bur and a chase hammer, he created openings in the bolts to loop the wire through and attached the gear. Perhaps, he thought as he set his work aside and took a few moment's stretch, that his efforts might have been of better use elsewhere, but it was after-all a gift and no one upstairs would miss his company.
Tossing the spectacles aside, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed as he took stock of his incomplete pet-project- a hair barrette made entirely from perforated steel bands shaped to form a perfect bow. It was still lacking something, but Spike could not figure out what it needed. His first thought was to paint it, but he knew the lady for which it was intended would appreciate the naked metal more than some gaudy enamel work. Still, colour was what the barrette lacked. Quickly dumping out the rest of the bits and bobs stored in his side-bag, Spike searched until he found a button, a cherry-red glass bead held in a gold setting most likely from a lady's jacket. The final touch was secured after another hour of work. He barely had time to admire the fruits of his toil before the sound of heels clattering on the steps leading to the basement sent him into a flurry of stuffing the diaspora of his accumulated miscellany back into his leather bag, the metal barrette finding safer refuge in his vest pocket.
Miss Winifred Burkle descended the staircase with some difficulty, having to hold up her skirts to prevent falling while maintaining her grip on the large leather trunk in her arms, her oval-framed glasses askew on her face. Spike quickly wiped the grease and oil off his hands and went to her aid, taking the trunk under one arm and holding out his hand to help her down the last few stairs from the landing.
"I did not expect to find you down here," Fred smiled, smoothing out her skirts. "Charles and Wesley are upstairs in the drawing room."
Setting the trunk on the workbench, Spike gave her wink and replied, "I've been banned from the dining room, parlor, and drawing room until I "start wearing a jacket like a proper gentleman,"" with a near-perfect impersonation of Angel's Irish brogue.
Fred laughed, stifling it with her hand, "I'm sure Angel didn't mean it." Taking a small key from the purse attached to her short apron, she unlocked the trunk taking out several different sizes of rifle stock. "Since you're already here, would you mind helping me put these into the inventory?"
Giving a quick nod, Spike went to the catalogue cabinet and pulled out a stack of blank index cards. He brought them over to her and asked, "Are you still working on the steam rifle?"
"Yes, I'm afraid all my prototypes either developed warped barrels from the heat or wood-rot in the stocks from condensation from the miniature boiler," she said with a little furrow in her brow as she plucked a pencil from the box on the workbench and wrote the first stock's model and length on the top card of the stack.
Spike's hand dipped into his vest pocket, feeling the cool metal of the ornament beneath his fingertips. He searched for some way to broach giving it to her without seeming too forward. "I'm sure you'll figure it out, Miss Fred. You completed the aether cannon, and I seem to remember quite a few exclamations of "I'll never get this to work" from a certain lady before it was finished."
Fred looked up at him, her face quite pretty and cheerful in the glow of the table lantern. Her smile made him flush though he told himself it was just from the heat of the room, his hand clenched tighter on the barrette in his pocket. "I thought we discussed that you were not to call me "Miss Fred" anymore as long as I stopped calling you "Mr. Spike?"" she said, her voice light, as she pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose.
"Well, we two had come to the agreement, yes," Spike smirked, leaning down on his elbows on the workbench, watching her deceptively frail-looking hands scrawl the information for the last stock in the trunk in a flowing, curling script that really only she could read without effort. He continued with his patented very-serious expression, "But you see, Mr. Angel thinks that it is inappropriate for me to refer to you in such an informal manner being that I am the lowliest ensign on this little ship, and until I learn my place and act as deemed appropriate by my betters, my movements within the house are somewhat restricted, which is why I am to take meals in my room, am not allowed to touch Mr. Angel's cigars nor his various libations in the liquor cabinet, and I am expressly forbidden from having contact with you without having a proper chaperone present. All of these things are always in the forefront of my mind, and I seriously and astutely keep to these tenants."
"Is that so?" Fred leaned forward on her hands, her own very-serious expression failing as she could barely keep the corners of her mouth from turning up in a smile.
"Surely, which is why if you were to look in my room you would definitely not find a hidden cash of forty-year-old Tawny Port and a box of cherry-tipped cigarillos beneath my bed," and with extra vehemence he added, "And there definitely are not any macaroons in my desk drawer under the blotter."
Fred patted his hand solemnly and said matter-of-factly, "Of course not, because we both know that while certain vampires who will remain nameless have a sweet-fang, the one that owns this house does not believe in such frivolity."
They both began laughing, overcome by their own silliness. While Fred respected Angel in the highest regard, she was quite amused that his attempts to "civilise" Spike, who was already quite civilised in her estimation when he was left to his own devices, bordered on the absurd, which ultimately led to Spike doing the exact opposite of what he was instructed to do out of spite. It would be more prudent, Fred thought, for Angel to ask Spike to do the opposite thing in order to obtain whatever end he wanted. However, she quickly reminded herself that letting her mind wander to the machinations of human- or more appropriately, vampire interactions would be best suited for another time when there was not work to be done. Having tagged and re-packed the rifle stocks into their trunk, she toted them to the sidewall to find them a place on one of the already excessively-full sills. After several minutes of searching, she finally managed to force her burden between a jar of filaments and a crate of cable reels.
"I believe my organizational skills could use just the teeniest bit of improvement," she remarked as she returned to the stack of index cards to record where the stocks resided for future reference.
Gathering some courage, Spike pulled the barrette out of his pocket, knowing that he might not have another chance to have any private discourse with Fred. "I think it feels very homey in here with the enormous boiler and all the smoke and that odd country fair smell..."
Fred gave a rather unlady-like snort through her nose as she filed the cards into the large oaken catalogue, "I still cannot figure out where that's coming from- " She was surprised when she felt Spike's hand brush a loose curl away from her forehead. She turned to him with a puzzled expression , but she found herself leaning into his touch for the slightest moment. Very gently, Spike fastened the metal ribbon in her hair. Letting her fingers gingerly touch the metallic object, she smiled and turned towards the mirror hanging over the washstand in the corner. Wiping away some of the film on the glass, she was able to admire the ornament, the red bead glinting at its center in lamplight.
"I overheard Wesley say that your birthday was fast approaching, so I thought... I thought I could make you something," Spike fidgeted, trying to fight off his embarrassment, partially worried that she would not like the gift but also worried that she might think he was a bit light in his swank yet second-hand boots for making something so feminine.
"It's beautiful!" She gave him a quick hug and a small peck on the cheek. At first, Spike had to mentally congratulate himself on picking materials for the barrette that really complimented Fred's colouring, but all coherent thought left his brain as he felt her warm lips caress against his face even for that brief moment. "Now we match," Fred smiled, touching the facsimile medal pinned to Spike's grey knit scarf. The medal was made from spare watch pieces and wire, fashioned to look like a dirigible. "You're so creative; I could never make things like these."
Spike felt the colour rise into the tips of his ears as he tried to force the silly grin off his face. "But you are creative. Look at all this," he gestured around the room to all the prototype weaponry and gadgets. "You take the pieces and make things that actually function. Mine don't do much at all."
It was Fred's turn to blush, ducking her head shyly. "At least you don't have to worry about yours blowing up the house to cinders."
They shared another laugh, meeting each other's eyes only briefly, his hand reaching out to softly take hers. Fred's lips parted, but whatever she was going to say was interrupted by the sudden sound of the door leading to the basement opening. Spike quickly let go of her hand, raking his fingers through his two-toned hair.
"Miss Burkle, are you down there?" From their position in the basement, the only thing visible of the owner of the voice to Spike and Fred was a pair of bright purple leather boots. Lorne continued down the stairs, being overly careful to stay away from the walls and anything that might sully his fastidiously orchestrated accouterment. He looked pleasantly surprised to see that Fred was not alone. "Oh, I didn't realize the teacake was with you." Spike gave him a glare, but Lorne pretended not to notice and continued, "No matter, I suppose Angel will want you to hear this as well." He clasped his green hands together and gave a short bow, "Your presences are requested upstairs. We've just received word over the Aethernet that our services are needed on a case."
x-posted at
darker_spike & nekid_spike.
Tags: