dragonyphoenix

which clothes, who knitted a couple of Spikes, mentioned writing stories for them on a day when I ran out of stuff to do at work. This is why they really should keep me busy at the office.
Note: I'm calling him Yarn!Spike instead of knitted Spike, which is whichclothes' term for him, in honor of the most awesome superhero, Yarn Man (Megaton Man comics, and am I a geek or what!)

Master index for The Adventures of Yarn!Spike

“At least she shipped me someplace where people smoke,” Spike said as his knitted boots walked across the table to the smokes. “Damn! No lighter.” He looked around the kitchen. “Where would I be if I were a lighter?” His thoughts turned to the purse he'd seen in the living room. “Worth a try.”

Not wanting to climb up after them again, Spike kicked the pack of cigarettes off the table and then threw himself to the floor. He picked up the pack and placed it under his arm. It slipped to the floor before he'd taken two steps. He tried again. The pack fell to the floor again. He picked up the pack and held it between his knitted hands. He managed four steps before the pack fell to the floor. “Fine, you wait here,” he said, giving the pack a kick. It slid away, stopping about a foot from the table.

Spike wobbled all the long way to the living room. He tried to open the snap on the purse by putting his arms between the snap and the body of the leather purse, but it wouldn't budge. He shoved his head under the strap and pushed as hard as he could. Nothing!

With a sigh, Spike wobbled through the living room, past the stairs, and into the study. The desk was at the far end. Spike fell as his knitted boots slid against the floor. He fell again. And again. He tried crawling, but his knitted hands and feet couldn't get a grip on the slick surface. He stood and fell, again and again, as he determinedly made his way across the room.

Finally, he made it. The desk had ornately carved legs, which made it easy to climb, especially compared to the walk across the floor. At the top of the desk, Spike found a pen. Tossing it to the floor, he threw himself down after and landed just in time to see it roll under the desk. Spike slipped and fell and slipped and fell until he made his way to the pen. Holding it at his side like a cane, he managed six steps before he fell. The pen rolled off. Spike slipped and fell his way to the pen. Using it once again as a cane, he managed five steps before he fell, but this time he held onto the pen. It was take about six steps and fall all the way across the room. Spike sighed with relief when his feet found the living room carpet. Wobbling his way back to the purse felt like a breeze after the torment of the study floor.

Spike stood on the leather purse as he wedged the pen between the purse and the snap. He kept lifting the pen until, with an audible snap, the purse opened. Peering in, Spike spotted the lighter right away. He wrapped his knitted hands around it and pulled. It slipped and fell even further into the purse. “Oh come on,” he shouted. Spike knocked the purse over and pulled out its contents – Blood Moon lipstick, tissues, some sort of gum that felt like it'd been there forever, and assorted odd things he was afraid to try and identify – until the lighter lay on the floor.

He wrapped his arm around the lighter, having no bones had to be good for something, and wobbled back to the kitchen where he more than appreciated the grooved tiled surface that let him walk taking a tumble every bloody step.

The smokes were gone. Spike dropped the lighter and sank over it. If he'd had tear ducts, he would have cried. With a sigh, he stood himself up and started climbing the chair to see if the pack had been put back on the table. He'd just reached the seat when he had a thought. Tossing himself back to the floor, he kicked the lighter until it was hidden below the edge of a cabinet, and then he climbed back up the chair.

The smokes weren't on the table. He could see them on the counter though so he threw himself to the floor, climbed the handles of the cabinet drawers, and tossed both the smokes and himself down.

He tried to pull a cigarette out of the box, but his hands wouldn't fit in so Spike upended the whole box. Cigs rolled everywhere. With a loud sigh, he fetched one and brought it back to the lighter. He slammed his hand down on the metal spikes atop the flint wheel. The yarn stuck.

“Hey!” he shouted to the empty room. “Did you bloody well think about my design at all before you made me?”