"Xander, please give it a rest."
"Yeah, okay, but I'm just establishing whose fault it is that we're gonna be late to the game."
"I'm not even sure I want to attend this, this, function in the first place."
"You'll love it! Beer, hotdogs, chanting rude things at Barry Bonds, celebs in the stands, men in gray uniforms throwing a ball around."
"We could drink beer at home."
"*Tight* gray uniforms."
Giles rolled his eyes. He slipped the clutch and the Citroen groaned forward a few more carlengths. Yes, it had been Buffy's fault. The last-minute demon lookup had turned out to take an hour, and then not to matter at all because the demon was from an entirely boring species. They'd been nearly the whole hour late in leaving, and as a result they'd hit rush hour traffic on the 101. Giles hated this kind of driving. And the Citroen's aged radiator hated it even more. At least the exit for Chavez Ravine was now in sight.
Xander fiddled with the ancient radio and got it to tune in a station. An AM station, since that was all the radio could get. The voice of an announcer came on, a man with an American accent he didn't recognize, not a Californian accent at all. The cadences of his voice were odd to Giles' ear, and what he said even odder.
"The count is now 2 and 1 to the right-handed Aurilia. Karros is holding Benard close to the bag at first. Here's the windup, and the pitch... it's in there for a striiike, a cut fastball just hitting the inside corner."
"Dammit, we're going to miss the first inning. Can't I beat Buffy up a *little* bit?"
"No. You can't. You're not physically capable of it."
"Can't you apply some Watcher discipline?"
"She's far too old to be turned over my knee. Besides, I have no interest in spanking that bottom at all."
"Mmm. Can think of another one that's much more to my taste."
Xander put a hand on his knee and slid it up, slowly, fingers trailing along the inner seam. "Hey, could you turn the car around? I just thought of something better for us to do."
"Oh do shut up."