Disclaimer: The characters are so, so not mine.
A/N: A short ficlet/drabble that had to be written, because it wouldn't leave my brain. It's very short and only earns it's PG because of the implied stuff. Nothing graphic at all. Also, it's a very silly little piece.

The 67 Plymouth, top up, rolled to a stop in the back alley of the Hyperion Hotel. The night was a clammy sort of warm, and as far as the eye could see, the night was also empty of any kind of audience, human or otherwise; in short, it was safe and unwatched. Perfect.

For several minutes the convertible stood stock still, soft moans emanating from it. The moans grew louder, in time; sometimes they transformed into groans and loud gasps, and both sources of noise were usually synchronized well. It grew into a crescendo when the car began to shake, first softly, then almost violently.

The moans, groans and gasps did not let up until a loud "Ow!" was heard. There was silence for a few minutes and the car stopped moving. The moans returned, however, only this time more desperate. The car, too, started rocking again from side to side, feverishly timed in a drum-based rhythm. Left. Right. Left. Right, left, rightleftrightleftrightleftright...

"Ow!"

What sounded suspiciously like a giggle escaped the car. An annoyed grunt followed closely, which in turn was followed by a surprised gasp. It was several moan filled minutes again until the car began moving, back on the same rhythm, creating that same creaking noise that joined with the moans, groans and gasps and became steady music. Percussion to bass. It filled the alley with sound.

Creak, moan, creak, gasp, creak.groan.creak.gasp.creak.creak.moan.gasp.creakcreakcreak...

"Ow! Ow, ow, ow-ow-ow!"

The alley was filled with silence once more, until several minutes passed. The doors to both the passenger's and driver's seat opened, two men stepping out looking embarrassed, closing their respective doors in petulant slams. The driver straightened his shirt and then re-fastened his belt, adjusting the buckle. The passenger tucked his shirt in, grimacing at wrinkles it had gathered.

"We never speak of this again."

Angel turned to Wesley, a look of determination on his face. "Agreed."

Fin.