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“You know, there was always something I wanted to ask you, but just never got around to it,” I said to him conversationally, as I sat down on the couch and twisted the phone cord around my fingers, smiling as I leaned back against the backrest.
“Oh?” I heard him chuckle into the receiver. “And, what was that?” he asked softly.
“What is with that damn convertible?” I asked. There was silence for a few seconds before he laughed. “You’re obsessed!” I told him.
“I’m not obsessed Buffy!” he said in annoyance.
“Angel,” I drawl, “you own a convertible.”
“I like having the wind in my hair,” he tells me seriously, but I know he is smiling.
I giggle softly. “Seriously, Angel, you have to admit you do like cars more then what is considered normal.”
I can tell he’s just rolled his eyes, he sighs again and a hiss of static comes in through the phone. “I do like them, I admit, they’re powerful and fast, and are so much easier to steer then a horse.” He pauses. “But if I tell you the real reason I like cars so much you’ll laugh.”
I pause and consider it. “I won’t,” I promise him.
He takes a deep breath. “Do you know when the car was first invented?”
I shrug and then remember he couldn’t see me. “Not really,” I admit.
“Around 1907,” he explains.
“So?” I ask, puzzled. “What does that have to do with anything?”
He sighs again. “I got my soul nine years earlier,” he told me flatly. “All the memories of the car, driving, feeling the power under my fingertips…they are mine, not the demon’s.”
I pause, considering his answer. “No guilt, no regrets,” I whisper, feeling tears in my eyes.
He pauses for a second, taking in a deep breath. “Apart from that VW Bug I had in the 60’s, no, none.”