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Tucker's Brother
by Jessica Walker
EMAIL: williamthebloody79@yahoo.com
DISTRIBUTION: You want *this*? ;o) Sure. Just let
me know.
SPOILERS: Through "As You Were."
COUPLE PAIRING: ::cringe:: Spike/Andrew. I'm sorry.
I really am. I, um, I blame society.
SUMMARY: An ex-geek ex-supervillain and a geeky
not-quite-supervillian have one too many. Takes place
shortly after Riley makes the crypt go ka-boom.
RATING: NC-17 for drunken homoerotic smut and mild
violence.
FEEDBACK: "To coin a popular Sunnydale phrase, 'duh.'"
DISCLAIMER: Joss owns them, even if he's not twisted
enough to make them do *this.*
NOTES: I'm kind of an anti-geek in that I'm a total
pop-culture retard; I don't get nine-tenths of the
references the geeks make on the show, so I'm sorry if
I've screwed any of them up here. Love for the
super-betarific Donna, of course, and profound
apologies to the world for writing this pairing. I
offer penance.
Tucker's Brother
by Jessica Walker
------------------------
Buffy: Who are you?
Andrew: Andrew. I summoned the flying monkeys that
attacked the high school? During the school play, you
know?
Warren: He's Tucker's brother.
Jonathan: Yeah, he's Tucker's brother.
Buffy/Willow: Ohhh.
-"Gone"
"Now I get Warren being the supervillainy type, but I
thought Jonathan completely learned that lesson. I
never even *heard* of this other guy."
-Xander, "Doublemeat Palace"
"The first star you see may not be a star.
I'm not your star."
-Something Corporate, "Konstantine"
------------------------
"Tucker, is that you?"
"It's me, Mom." Andrew appears in the kitchen
doorway, overstuffed bag of laundry noticeably tipping
him to one side.
"Oh. I thought you were your brother." Mrs. Wells
doesn't look up from the pages of her cookbook.
"You're home early."
Andrew pauses, a bit taken aback. "I- I haven't been
home in three weeks, Mom. And Tucker's in
Massachusetts, remember?"
"Mm-hm," she replies, spinning the spice rack in
search of the lemon pepper. Andrew rolls his eyes and
makes his way through the living room.
"Just here to drop off your laundry?" booms the voice
behind the evening edition of the Sunnydale
Banner-Herald.
"Yeah. I-I mean yes. Sir." He'd had every intention
of doing his own laundry until Warren tried to
"reprogram" the washer last week. True to his
promise, it washed a load of clothes in 6.95 minutes.
Then it imploded, and Jonathan's He-Man t-shirt caught
fire. Andrew suggested summoning a clothes-washing
demon of some sort, if such a thing existed; the idea
was quickly vetoed.
Mr. Wells sighs from behind his newspaper. "Andrew, I
just don't understand why you're so irresponsible.
Why can't you be more like-"
//don'tsayitdon'tsayitdon'tsayit//
"-your brother?"
Andrew feels his face curl up in an involuntary wince.
"I-I don't know. Sir."
"You staying for dinner?"
At the moment he can't imagine anything more
horrifying. "No, sir."
"Got a date?"
Andrew stifles a laugh, glad that his father still
hasn't glanced out from behind the paper. "No, sir."
Warren has a date. He's actually quite good at
getting dates, although they usually end with the girl
in question throwing her drink in Warren's face and
storming out somewhere between the appetizer and the
first course. They've learned to keep a safe distance
if he comes home with his tie smelling like a martini.
As for Jonathan... well, ever since figured out how
to make the paragon spell work in hour-long
increments, without all the nasty, demon-ridden side
effects, he's been seeing those Swedish twins again.
The only action Andrew ever gets is when he summons
the K'ashbadhi, a gender-nonspecific race of demons
who give amazing head, and there's nothing like being
the geekiest in a room full of geeks to remind you how
downright pathetic you are, is there? But they
haven't thrown him out of the gang
//yet//
and they're usually pretty nice to him. And they've
learned not to mention his brother.
"We got another letter from Tucker today," his mother
says cheerfully when Andrew escapes back into the
kitchen.
Isn't that nice.
"They made him captain of the math team."
"That's great," Andrew says flatly, grabbing a coke
from the refrigerator.
"And he's dating a cheerleader! What do you think
about that?"
He snickers, choking on his drink. "I think your
brilliant mathematician is the world's shittiest
liar," he mutters under his breath. He also thinks
that if Tucker was actually getting laid he wouldn't
have time to write so many goddamned letters.
"Hmm?"
"Nothing. I gotta go."
"Your laundry's-"
Andrew's about ten seconds from screaming. "I gotta
go now," he says shakily, and bolts out the door.
Outside the sky is just fading from blue into deep
black. He sucks in a deep breath when he reaches the
front porch, his thin chest hitching as if there's not
enough oxygen inside that house. He reaches into his
pocket, fingering the $50 he took from his mother's
purse, and begins to walk. Two blocks away from the
house and he can breathe again, three and his hands
stop shaking. He wonders how long he can borrow
Warren's clothes until he has to cave and go back for
his own. Ten blocks and he's in a part of town that
small skinny humans just don't go after dark if they
want to keep all their parts. It's turned into a
ritual, and he walks a little farther every time.
//you don't need their fucking washer and dryer, you
can buy new clothes, you're a fucking supervillain,
you can steal clothes, why do you keep going back
there? What kind of glutton for punishment are you,
Andrew? It's all Tucker's fault, anyway. Tucker and
his stupid letters.//
Fifteen blocks and that voice in his head is quieter
but he still feels restless, twitchy, like he's
trapped inside glass. This time he pauses in front of
a bar that he has no right going into and thinks about
his prospects for the evening- being, at this point,
returning to the empty basement that he shares with
Warren and Jonathan, or going back to-
no. not an option. Never an option, really.
//wonder if she'll notice the missing money. wonder
if she'll remember you were even in the house?//
He thinks about the drunkest he's ever been, him and
Jonathan in the lair with a stolen six-pack and Dr.
Who on DVD. And okay, he really wasn't all that
drunk, just kind of light-headed, euphoric; took the
edge of and Christ if there aren't a lot of edges in
him this evening. Why does he keep treading this same
ground over and over again, these streets he shouldn't
be on, these places he shouldn't go? Three places
he's afraid to be in and this bar is the least
frightening of them right now and really, where else
is he supposed to go?
//deathwish much?// his brain whispers insidiously,
and he tells his brain to shut the hell up for once as
he steps inside the bar.
An ugly, lumbering scaly thing starts towards him
threateningly, and Andrew takes a deep breath. It's a
L'gar S'narsk, big and scary but easily controlled.
He cracks his knuckles experimentally before waving
his hand towards it and muttering a couple of words in
Latin that he still isn't sure how to pronounce. The
air shivers slightly and the demon backs away,
growling.
Andrew approaches the bar, rubbing his shaking hands
together. It was a lucky break; summoning demons is
easy. Getting them to go away, he's still working on.
"I wanna whiskey." He tries to sound tough and
mature; it so doesn't work.
"Need some I.D."
"I- I'm twenty-one."
A forked tongue flickers between the bartender's lips.
"I.D."
"I am! *Really!*"
"Whatever, kid."
The fact that he doesn't turn twenty-one for another
six months isn't the issue so much as the fact that he
doesn't look a day over sixteen. If only Jonathan
were here, he thinks; he knows how to conjure very
authentic-looking IDs. "Could I please have a
whiskey?" He gives up on demanding this time and goes
for plaintive.
"No." The bartender doesn't glance up from his
newspaper. He doesn't sound angry; he sounds bored.
"Dave, why don't you just give the kid a fucking
drink?"
Andrew looks up in surprise and cowers briefly against
the bar. Whiteblond hair, long black coat. Spike.
The vampire who, only a few months before, invaded the
sanctity of their lair and nearly destroyed their
action figure collection.
Except the doesn't have the confidence and swagger he
had when he showed up the lair that night and
threatened Boba Fett. Spike's face is pale and drawn,
his eyes suspiciously swollen. He slumps in the
barstool next to Andrew as Dave places two shots of
whiskey in front of them.
"Why'd you do that?" Andrew asks warily, glaring at
the vampire.
Spike shrugs. "You shouldn't ever deny a bloke a
drink when he wants one. Downright criminal, it is.
Hell, even *I'm* not that evil." He spares a glance
in Andrew's direction. "Warren's friend, right?"
Something in his inflection clues Andrew in to the
fact that this isn't Spike's first drink of the
evening, not the first by a long shot.
Andrew snickers into his glass. "Warren's friend.
Sure. That's a new one. Or you could just call me
Tucker's brother, everyone else does." The vampire
quirks a scarred eyebrow at him and he amends,
"Andrew."
Spike shrugs indifferently, and tosses back his drink.
After a brief pause, Andrew takes a deep breath and
does the same.
He thinks, for an entire two seconds, that he's going
to be okay. Then he realizes that his throat is about
to explode, that his sinuses are on fire and his
tongue's gone completely numb and he *cannot* breathe
and that's pretty fucking scary and he'd like to at
least comment on his incipient demise but the only
thing he can manage to say is
"blaaageeaaauuuuuuhhhhgggguuuhhkk."
"Oh, for Christ's sake." Spike pounds Andrew
none-too-gently on the back. "Order a wine cooler or
something, ya fuckin' pansy."
Andrew knows of forty-two species of demons that he
could summon right now to rip Spike limb from limb if
he hadn't left the conjuring powder at home. "Shut
up." Okay. Breathe. Breathing now. He can handle
this. Everything. is. cool. "I want another one."
Like the little vampire girl in the movie. Like
Oliver Twist. Not enough, never enough.
"I don't think whiskey's your drink, mate."
"I said I want another one." The room feels warmer
now. Warm, with a soft glow.
"Dave," Spike calls with a dramatic roll of his eyes,
"another round for me and the whelp who can't handle
his liquor?"
The bartender sets another whiskey before him and
Andrew picks it up, eyeing the liquor apprehensively.
Maybe if he drinks it really, really fast-
Or not. "Bleaugh," he chokes. "Yeauch. Yeuuuugh.
Bleah."
"Stop that," Spike snaps. "It's fucking annoying,
that."
"Sorry," Andrew says, a little testily. He feels
dizzy. It's nice.
"Wouldn't expect anything more, anyhow. You and your
friends."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Andrew blurts out, and
it occurs to him that his voice sounds a lot louder
than it normally does.
"I'm just sayin'. You lot. Skulking around in a
basement with your big plans. Children playing at
supervillains." Spike gestures to the bartender again
and whiskey magically appears before them- Andrew
isn't quite sure how it got there, but things seem to
be moving at an unusual speed. "Downright pathetic,
it is."
"Don't flatter yourself," Andrew retorts, and his
voice sounds harsh to his own ears. "Punk rockers are
just geeks that break stuff." He rolls the glass in
his hands. "'Sides, I've done... a lot. Lots of
villainy stuff."
"Oh yeah? Such as?"
"Monkeys," Andrew replies, taking a gulp of whiskey
and coughing. "Demon monkeys. I trained 'em to
attack the school play. *Romeo and Juliet.* Two
stagehands ended up in the hospital."
Spike raises an eyebrow appreciatively. "Sounds fun."
"It was. One of 'em stole Lady Capulet's wig. It was
way better than my brother, he did this thing, with
hellhounds and the prom... I mean, all Tucker had to
do was pop in a video and leave 'em alone. Do you
have any idea how many passages of Shakespeare I had
to read to those stupid monkeys?"
"Yeah, well, Romeo and Juliet's just a bunch of
bollocks anyhow," Spike says glumly, staring into his
drink.
"Richard III," Andrew replies seriously. "Now,
*that's* art."
"Hear, hear," Spike grumbles, clinking his glass
briefly against Andrew's. "Why'd you do it?"
"What?" He's finding Spike's train of thought harder
to follow.
"You know. With the-" Spike waves one hand
expressively. "With the monkeys and the theater and
that. Revenge? Nefarious plot? Or were you just
bored? Sometimes I just get bored."
"Oh." He shrugs. "Dunno. Seemed fun. Just wanted
to know if I could, is all."
He's not sure that's entirely honest; Juliet was
played by Lisa Rosenthal, with whom he used to make
out behind the bleachers during the science fair or in
the back of the classroom during chem lab. Until they
turned fifteen, and Lisa grew long hair and breasts
and curves and football players like Tom Hendricks
(a.k.a. Romeo) started asking her out.
But, truth be told, that was just a bonus. It was a
challenge, is all. No matter that the play was a mere
week after the nearly-fatal senior prom- this was not
about Tucker and his lame stunts. Point was that
Andrew had pulled it off nicely- Buffy didn't even
stop him like she did his brother. In fact, the
Slayer didn't attend classes the week of the play-
rumor had it that her boyfriend was sick, or injured
or something. Tucker got three days suspension and
wasn't allowed to walk at graduation, but Snyder only
gave Andrew a week's detention for his "simian
antics."
"Andrew," his mother asked pointedly as they left the
principal's office, "is this about your brother's
stunt with the dogs at the school dance?"
Hellhounds, Mom, he thought silently. They were
hellhounds. And he didn't even summon them or
anything. Found a nest near the Hellmouth and shot
them with tranquilizer darts that he stole from the
librarian's office. Lame. "You know, Andrew," Mrs.
Wells said patiently as they drove away from the
school, "you don't need to act out in order to prove
your specialness."
//Yes, I do,// he thought desperately, pulling his
knees up to his chin and staring sightlessly out the
car window. //I do, I do, I do.//
One good thing came of it, after all. One of the
seniors, dark-haired guy, good with computers,
approached him the morning after the play. "That was
impressive work last night, man," he said. "You've
got a real talent. Can we talk?"
Spike's voice startles him back to the present. "You
at university?"
Ordinarily Andrew would try to deconstruct that
segueway but he's beginning to figure out that this is
drunk, yep, this is what he came in here for, Spike is
drunk and apparently so is Andrew. "I- I was."
Spike blinks, slowly. "But...?"
Andrew turns the glass in his hands, speaking quickly.
"Well, see, I've got this brother-" His voice
sticks in his throat for a moment. "He's a year older
than me and he's really good at science, like *really*
good and he finished up at UC Sunnydale a year and a
half early and now he's on his way to grad school at
MIT on full scholarship." He pauses for breath,
tightening his fingers around the shotglass. "So I
started there last year and I was taking all these
advanced chem classes, 'cause my dad said so, even
though I wanted to take history and all my professors
were like 'oh, you must be Tucker's brother. We
expect great things from you.'" Sarcasm drips heavily
from his voice and he bites down on his lower lip. He
had been sitting in the back row, he remembers, and
the professor's smile was too big, too wide, and his
hand had tightened convulsively around his ballpoint
pen as he heard his brother's name and thought //not
again. not again. not again.//
"And...?"
Andrew shrugs. "I quit. That day. Went to the
registrar and dropped all my classes."
"You didn't think you'd pass?"
If he could just get his fingers to grip the glass
more tightly, his hands would probably stop shaking.
Weak hands, slender fingers, sweat-slick palms. Nails
bitten down. He wishes Spike would stop asking him
questions. "Of course I'd pass. Chemistry's not that
hard. Probably get a B or an A-minus or something.
But I'm not Tucker. I can't do what he did. And if I
can't, well, there's really no point."
"So... what? Moved back in with mummy and daddy?"
Spike smirks.
Andrew stares off into the distance, remembering
showing up on Jonathan's doorstep, sporting a bruised
eye. No, really, man, I ran into a door, it's cool,
could I maybe spend the night tonight? And tomorrow
night? And the night after that? "I stayed with
friends."
"For a year?"
The year's passed quickly in a haze of D&D and
semi-organized crime, and if Andrew's wasting his
life, he doesn't particularly mind. He spent eighteen
years waiting for his life to start and it turned out
to be the same old shit. He doesn't want his life to
start anymore. He wants to hide in Warren's basement,
where it's safe.
Spike gives an indifferent shrug when he doesn't
answer the question. "I didn't finish university
either, y'know."
"How come?"
Spike motions to the bartender. "Died."
Andrew thinks about dying a lot. When he was
seventeen he thought about it all the time, and then
there were sharp things and scars and medications and
an endless parade of shrinks until he finally ended up
in the same counseling group as that really short kid
with a nasal voice who had tried to blow his brains
out in the school clock tower the spring before.
Therapy never helped Andrew, but Jonathan and Warren
did, and he's better now. Yeah, so sometimes he wakes
up in the middle of the night with a great shuddering
pain his chest and he sits up on his bed in the corner
and wraps his arms around this knees and cries
quietly. *Very* quietly, if he can at all help it.
It's not that bad. The others are used to the sound
and know to leave him alone. But they always ask,
just once, voices sleepy and muffled: "you okay, man?"
He always says yes, and they always leave it at
that... but it's enough. That voice in the dark.
Andrew's better now. He's better now because he's got
friends who want him to be better, and if he didn't
have them...
He doesn't like to think about that.
"Would you make me into a vampire?" he asks abruptly,
the words tumbling out of their own volition. He
bites down hard on his bottom lip, as if he could
somehow take them back.
//stupid, stupid, stupid//
Spike looks startled, and Andrew stops him before the
inevitable refusal. "S'okay," he says quickly. "I
mean, s'cool. Forget it." Stares into his drink. He
wouldn't want to spend eternity with himself, either.
"Look," Spike explains patiently, "I couldn't do it
anyway. Even-"
Even if he wanted to. "I said forget it," Andrew
repeats, more forcefully this time. Takes a deep
swallow of whiskey. This time he doesn't choke.
He hates Spike. It's not quite logical- he doesn't
even *know* Spike- but he knows he can't do anything
about it, so he just sits there staring, hating,
hating Spike with his unnaturally cool hair color and
his swishy leather coat, hating the waitress that
keeps flirting with him and ignoring Andrew, hating
those sharp eyes and cheekbones that were just- so-
Because Andrew's hair is always a mess, and the
clothes that hang uneasily on him often don't match,
and sometimes when he's brushing his teeth in the
morning he opens the medicine cabinet so he doesn't
have to see his reflection. And he wants to *be*
Spike so badly that it aches, aches to be inside this
skin, this gangly, awkward, skinny body with a mouth
that always says the wrong goddamn things. But it's
useless. Shy, socially inept dorks don't turn into
bad-ass creatures of the night. And he knows, after
all. That Spike is a real supervillain, and the
Troika are just boys with toys.
"What's it like?"
"Whassat?"
"Being evil."
"Oh. Good. It's good." Spike tosses back his drink
and gestures for another. "Real good, you know, I've
had a lot of fun, with the evil." He seems hesitant
to broach the subject, but then adds enthusiastically,
"I killed Slayers. Two of them."
"Wow," Andrew says appreciatively. "That's so cool.
Hey, were you the one that attacked the school during
Parent-Teacher night that one time? Jonathan thinks
it was you but he's not sure."
"Yup," Spike says, swelling up with pride. "That was
me. Were you there?"
"Yeah, dude. I had to hide in the boiler room all
night." He picks up the drink in front of him and
suddenly realizes that it's somehow become two or
three drinks, very blurry drinks at that. Oh well.
Might as well drink them all. "You killed my science
teacher. The night before the test. It was
*awesome.*"
"Glad to be of service."
"And what about chicks?" Andrew presses excitedly. "I
bet you get a ton of chicks."
Spike's confident smirk stays in place for about three
seconds before collapsing. "No," he says, his voice
hollow. "Not especially." And, with a defeated
attitude, he slumps over the bar and buries his head
in his arms.
"You okay?"
"It's over," Spike says brokenly. "She says it's over,
and I think- I think maybe this time I believe her.
Bitch. *Fucking* bitch."
"I'm sorry," Andrew says, lifting the whiskey to his
lips again. He's not even remotely sorry; he's not
capable of feeling sympathy for anyone who's at least
*had* someone, even if he's lost them. "You want us
to kill her?" he says grimly, sarcasm heavily lining
his voice. "We're real good at that."
Spike looks quizzical for a moment, and then his eyes
widen. "Holy shit," he says, with a touch of
admiration in his voice. "It was you lot, wasn't it?
That dead girl."
Andrew glances around uncertainly, still sober enough
to be paranoid. "Dude, it wasn't my fault."
Spike chuckles appreciatively. "So you're the ones
who almost got the Slayer arrested."
"Yeah," Andrew replies uneasily. "You mad?"
Spike shrugs, tosses back his whiskey. "No. Serves
her right. Self-righteous bitch. You do that sort of
thing often? With the death and all? I must say,
that was impressive work."
"No," Andrew says quickly. "No, the death was a
one-time thing. No more death. We've put a
moratorium on death."
"You sure? It's just, that Warren bloke... seems a
tad unbalanced to me is all."
Andrew shrugs. "Yeah, well, he doesn't like not
getting his own way. And sometimes he's... mean."
Andrew tried to talk to him, once, about What
Happened. Suggested that they take the whole
supervillain thing a little slower after the extreme
fuck-up of Katrina's demise. Warren hit him, hard.
Later Andrew told Jonathan that he'd run into a door.
"Then why do you stay with him?"
Andrew squirms uneasily in his chair. Because he can
do stuff. He has power. He can make things happen.
Because he doesn't fuck up the way Andrew fucks up.
"Because- because- he's *Warren.* You know?"
Spike snickers. "Sounds a lot like Angelus."
"Who?"
"No one. Never mind."
"It makes me feel like I'm... I don't know... part of
something. Like it matters if I'm around." Andrew
speaks fast, the words rushing over his tongue.
"Sometimes I feel like I'm not even here. Like- like
I have to make people see me or I'll just disappear."
"I get that," Spike says reflectively.
"No, you don't," Andrew snaps. "You don't know what
it's like to be me."
Spike chuckles. "I *was* you.
Andrew peers at the mirror behind the bar, at his
stupid pale face and haphazard hair. Spike doesn't
reflect, of course, but his shotglass floats up and
down. Andrew lowers his head onto his folded arms,
laughing crazily at the image- and he thinks- not
entirely sure where the thought comes from- that
Spike's eyes are so blue that it hurts and doesn't
want to go home yet where's it's so damn quiet and he
would very much like for Spike to touch him all over.
"What's so funny?"
Andrew snickers and points at the mirror. "You're not
there."
Spike snarls and hurls his shotglass at the mirror,
shattering the glass into sharp, silver shards. "Am
now."
"All right," Dave the bartender snaps. "That's
enough, Spike." The forked tongue makes it sound like
Sssspike. Andrew giggles again. "Time to go."
"What? You bloody wanking-"
"Closing time, Count Bleachula. Take your boy-toy and
get lost."
"I'm not a boy-toy," Andrew grouses, squinting his
eyes blearily at his X-Files watch. He thinks it says
two a.m.,
but who knows? "Am I a boy-toy?"
"You're asking the wrong guy," Spike slurs, tumbling
off the stool and barely catching himself from falling
to the ground. "Come on, Super-Nerd. There are other
bars. There *must* be other bars. I'm sure of it."
He stumbles and Andrew catches his arm, rolling his
eyes. "God. You're wasted. You're wasteder'n me."
Wasteder? Christ. Just making up random words now.
"You should go home."
"I don't wanna go home," Spike replies drunkenly,
running his fingertip in lazy circles through the
rings of condensation decorating the bar. "Home is
empty. Lonely. Kind of incinerated."
The lair is empty, too, and it occurs to Andrew that
he has no desire to go back there tonight, when the
others won't be back until at least dawn. "There are
other bars," he echoes. "You said so."
They're almost to the door when Spike weaves again,
staggers, lurches to one side and ends up barrelling
straight into Andrew. Knocking him into a wall, hard,
hard enough to make him see stars when his head hits
the plaster. Spike's hands clutch Andrew's chest in
an attempt to steady himself, his face an inch, maybe
two inches away from Andrew's. He hears himself suck
in a startled breath, realizing how long it's been
since his lips have been that close to anyone else's.
"Sorry 'bout that," Spike says, blinking slowly.
"It's okay." Because it is. Something about it is
very, very okay.
"Humans are so fucking warm. All that blood racing
inside you. Heart pounding. Never still, even for a
moment. How do you stand it? Isn't it *exhausting?*"
"You get used to it," Andrew murmurs.
Spike tilts his head to the side, eyeing the boy
quizzically, and one hand snakes up towards Andrew's
face, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw. "Your
heart's pounding. I can hear it. Are you scared?
You don't look scared." Pressure of fingers hard,
almost painful at his pulse points. "Why did you come
here tonight?" Spike asks, his words slurring only
slightly. "Was it to get killed, or to get laid?
It's always one or the other, in places like this.
Which was it?"
Andrew blinks, trying to look nonchalant in spite of
heavy intoxication. It won't work; nonchalant just
looks clueless on him. "I'm not sure."
"'Cause you've practically got "Disembowel Me" printed
on your forehead and "Fuck Me" printed on your ass,
mate. You're aware of this, yeah?"
"Yeah." He stares into Spike's eyes, wondering if
there's a name in the prism for that color. "What
about you? Which one is it for you?"
Spike shrugs. "I'm already dead, mate. You're so
smart, you do the math."
"Oh," Andrew replies, and then realizes what Spike's
saying. "Ohhhh. You mean-?"
He means Andrew. He almost asks if Spike wouldn't
rather have someone else instead, but he glances
around and realizes there isn't anyone else here.
Except Dave the bartender, of course, and Dave's
unattractive enough to make Andrew feel downright sexy
in comparison. "*Me?*"
Spike shrugs. "Guess so." He pulls out a cigarette,
stares blearily at Andrew over the flame of his Zippo.
"Depends. Do you usually say no when you mean yes?
'Cause, really, I hate that."
Andrew cocks his head to the side, considering.
"Nuh-uh. I usually say yes and mean yes, please."
Spike exhales a cloud of smoke and smiles, a slow,
sharp smile. Leans forward, close again, so close.
"Let's get out of here, yeah?"
His head clears a little when they reach the cool,
rain-washed streets. The last drops fall on his nose
and into his hair and he sobers up just enough to
realize that it's a stupid idea, but not sober enough
to change his mind, or indeed prevent himself from
giggling hysterically at the situation at hand.
"Whass' so funny?" Spike slurs.
"This is stupid. This. Me. You. Us. Fuck, it's so
stupid." Hysteria starts to become panic and Andrew
runs a hand uneasily through his hair. "I mean,
you're *dead.* God, what am I doing? What the fuck
am I doing?"
Spike puts one hand on Andrew's shoulder- maybe as
comfort, or maybe simply to steady himself as he
stumbles forward. "It's okay, mate. Calm down,
willya?"
"No, it's not okay," Andrew fumes, pushing Spike away
from him. "You're taking advantage of me. Or I'm
taking advantage of you, or something. And I don't
even *know* you."
"And if there were a risk of catching a social
disease, or either one of us getting knocked up, that
might be a problem, but I really don't think-"
"No. It's not just that. I-" He bites down on his
lip, fighting back tears of frustration. "I'm really
drunk, Spike."
He means more than that. He means that he didn't mean
to take that third whiskey or that fourth or that
fifth but he couldn't seem to help it once he felt
that cold hardness start to break down into something
soft and safe and warm and there's something about
Spike's eyes that are so fucking *blue.* He means
that the edges of the world were blurry and nothing
made sense even *before* he started drinking so he
doesn't hold out much hope for any decisions that he
makes at this point. He means that he can hear
thoughts in his head that he knows aren't quite sane,
and he can already see himself doing something very,
very stupid before the night is over, something he
might very well regret, something that could get him
fucking *killed* and he can't even stop himself from
plummeting headlong down this path of Something Very
Stupid because-
because he's cold inside his skin most days, like he's
rattling around in here by himself, and the echo is
deafening. And if somebody, anybody would fucking
*touch* him it could pull him back to the surface of
his skin again, make it bearable to live in here.
His parents were never big on physical contact, and
when they were it always turned out badly. Some
doctors- Andrew read it somewhere once- say that
children who aren't touched can die. They get sick,
weak, they wither away. Andrew knows it's not true,
but he wishes it were. And if he starts being honest
with himself, he'll have to admit why he picks so many
fights with Jonathan that result in punches and
playful wrestling, or why he savors the friendly
back-slaps Warren dispenses at a job well done.
Because he needs something, anything to convince him
that he's not fucking *radioactive.* Because he can
live with skinny and ugly and geeky and stupid and
clueless and scared and confused but he's having a
real fucking tough time with coping with *alone,* and
the whiskey tugging his brain in ten dizzy directions
is doing a damn fine job of convincing him that all
the Something Very Stupids in the world don't stand a
chance when he feels like this, when he feels like
he's trapped inside himself, screaming to
be let out. Because alcohol and fear have worn down
his defenses to the point where the only coherent
thought he has left is *I'd like this ache to stop,
please, I don't much care how.* Because, Jesus
Christ, Spike might rip his throat out tonight and he
wishes he could summon up the energy to care.
But he's not sober enough to explain all this, so all
he can do is echo lamely, "Christ, Spike, I'm so
drunk."
He grins. "Yeah. Me too."
"Does this make me a slut?"
"Yeah. Don't worry. You get used to it."
"Don't you think-"
"What the fuck do you want? You want me to tell you
this is a good idea? It's not a fucking good idea.
It's the worst fucking idea I've had all year," Spike
snaps. "Think you can cope with that, or would you
rather go home and have a wank while looking at
pictures of- of- Queen Amidala or whoever the fuck it
is you-"
Andrew tightens his jaw, seething. "No. I just
want-"
"-to feel something. I know. Heard it all before.
Spare me the speech, all right?" Spike leans forward
clumsily, bracing himself against the side of the
building to keep from falling over. Andrew can feel
the texture of rough brick at his back and he leans
against the wall and waits.
Spike's lips are so close to his own and he thinks if
only there was something, a hint of warmth, the motion
of breath, anything but the glare of pale skin and
blazing eyes- then this might make some semblance of
sense. And then Spike leans forward, and Andrew can
feel the lightest burn of razor-stubble- how do
vampires shave, he almost asks?- but he forgets
because Spike's lips. Are cool and very, very
insistent and he tastes like whiskey, like nicotine,
just vaguely like blood. His fingers curl around the
back of Andrew's neck and their lips press together
with bruising pressure. He can feel Spike's teeth,
hard and slick against his lips, slightly sharp even
without fangs, and then a tongue, quick, impatient,
fucking his mouth. This isn't kissing, at least not
the way he
((imagines it))
thinks of it; it's a full-on oral assault. It's like
being swallowed whole and God, oh God he wants to
disappear, he *could* disappear inside that mouth.
Some small part of his whiskey-addled brain is
screeching that he's making out with a *guy,* a *dead*
guy at that, but he's past caring. Warren has his
cerebral dampeners and FemmeBots, and Jonathan has his
twins, and Andrew's got exactly jack shit. And he
knows he's just the means to an end but hey, sure,
whatever. Feeling's mutual, anyway. He forgets the
need to breathe and by the time he pulls away he's
actually light-headed, gasping.
Spike's fingers trail slowly down the side of Andrew's
neck and he nuzzles the boy's throat with a soft purr,
lips running slowly over his jugular. He leans in
close, his erection pressing against Andrew's leg.
"You live near here?"
Andrew nods wordlessly, shaking, and leads the way.
Spike walks behind him, silent.
"This isn't a lair," the vampire snaps when Andrew
unlocks the door and leads him to the basement. He's
chain-smoking and Andrew hopes the smell will be gone
by morning; the others know that he doesn't smoke.
"It's a clubhouse for bored schoolchildren."
"Shut up." It can't be that, can't be just that.
Because if their lair is just a basement filled with
action figures, then the Troika is just a bunch of
losers, and their Fearless Leader is just a
disgruntled and slightly disturbed engineering major,
and Andrew-
-what's Andrew then? He'll tell you what. Nothing.
Tucker's brother.
"It's a lair, he says again, stubbornly, sitting down
on his bed and watching in horror as Spike stubs his
cigarette out on one of Jonathan's Babylon 5
commemorative plates.
Spike doesn't waste any time joining him on the bed.
They clutch at one another artlessly, like horny
teenagers, desperation bleeding out of their
fingertips. Tongues and teeth snapping. He's never
touched a vampire and he'd always assumed that there
was something elemental about them, something
not-quite-real, like cold morning air or rain-washed
stone, something slick and hard to grasp. Spike is as
big as life, all sharp angles and smooth planes and
insistent tongue. A hand drifts indifferently under
Andrew's shirt, cool fingers against his flat stomach,
before moving away again. Andrew moans and leans into
the touch, following Spike's hand as it tries to pull
away. "Don't," he mutters between kisses, and Spike
grins. "Touch me." Cold fingertips snake against his
torso again, tracing the curves of ribs and sternum,
thumbs raising his nipples to sharp points. Andrew
moans deep into Spike's mouth, writhes his slender
body against those chill hands.
He speaks, finally, between the vampire's lips,
unwilling to pull away from that mouth long enough to
form words, in tones so low he is certain that it will
not be heard. His voice trembles ever-so-slightly and
later he will realize that only the haze of alcohol
coating his brain allows him to speak the words that
have been screaming in his brain since they left the
bar.
"Fuck me. Please."
A soft snicker from Spike, a tongue flickering between
Andrew's teeth. Acquiescence.
Spike leans forward, pushes Andrew back against the
mattress. He runs the flat palm of his hand
torturously along Andrew's groin and the boy whimpers,
flexing against the slow, sweet burn of that friction.
"You want me?" Spike whispers huskily.
"Duh," Andrew snaps.
Shirt pushed up all the way to his neck, high enough
for Spike's mouth to begin at the pale hollow of his
throat and work its way down, tongue flickering over
collarbones, past the curves of his ribs and over his
hipbones. Andrew trembles against those cool lips,
eyes tightly closed. He can feel the slick of cool
fangs against the skin of his abdomen and he waits,
breathless, for the inevitable bite that does not
come. And he wants it, God, he wants it so bad, wants
Spike to pierce his way through pale flesh and jutting
ribs and drain him dry. He wants to bleed his way out
of this skin. He's sure his insides are prettier than
his outsides, anyway.
The points of Spike's fangs scrape ever-so-lightly
against his flesh, and the vampire seems to be pushing
the
limits of something here, testing himself
((couldn't do it anyway, even if I wanted to- what
does that mean?))
"Do it," Andrew snarls in a voice that does not sound
like his own. Acquiescence. And there is a piercing
and a notquitepain and then the warmth of blood, two
lazy trickles from twin wounds that slide down his
stomach, barely staining the waistband of his boxers;
and a cool tongue that follows them, lapping up the
blood in rough strokes, long slow burn against flesh.
Andrew arches up involuntarily against that mouth and
then, oh, then, cool hands methodically undoing his
zipper-
and Andrew is nearly certain that he's not gay. He is
fascinated by women, after all, obsessed by them-
Scully, Xena, Princess Leia, Christina Ricci, the
aforementioned Lisa Rosenthal, the Slayer, the
Slayer's cute redheaded friend, the Slayer's cute
redheaded friend's cute blonde friend, and that really
hot computer teacher who died his sophomore year in
high school, fixated upon the shapes and smells and
sights of unattainable women but that is not the
point. Oh so not the point when his dick is in
Spike's mouth.
"Christ. Oh. Fuck." His voice is so loud in the
silence of the room, and he clenches his teeth
together until his
jaw aches. //shutupandrewshutup//
*Gag reflex,* he half-thinks, his brain scrambling for
cohesion, language with which to link together his
thoughts. *Probably doesn't have one. Christ.
Swallowed. Fucking swallowing my cock. Oh Christ.*
He chokes back an extremely bizarre noise that sounds
something halfway between a whimper and a sob.
Tongue. Oh, God, Spike's tongue, wrapped so tight
around him.
His hands clench and unclench spasmodically, fingers
trembling, scraping for purchase and they wind up in
Spike's hair, twisting hard between the locks, pulling
them into stiff little peaks. Whatever keeps Spike's
hair in its usual skull-plastered position melts
stickily against the sweat on Andrew's palms and
//feathers,// his mind thinks crazily, drunkenly as
his body jerks in spasmodic patterns to the rhythm of
Spike's
mouth. //like feathers dipped in honey.//
His fingers tighten too hard and Spike growls low in
his throat, sending waves of vibration through
Andrew's cock and the boy bites down hard on his lower
lip to keep from screaming or coming or both. The
vampire finally reaches up and tears Andrew's fists
from his hair, pinning his hands to the mattress and
leaving fingertip-bruises along the pale lines of his
wristbones.
"Ow," he whimpers, but his voice sounds very, very far
away. He'll wear those faint bracelets of black and
blue for days, he knows; he bruises easily and the
marks don't fade. They called him into the school
counselor's office more than once, inquiring after
busted lips and blackened eyes. Nothing ever came of
it; this is Sunnydale, after all.
Hands travel down slowly, down the length of his arms
and the lines of his cotton-clad torso, cool
fingertips against the pale skin covering his
hipbones, holding him steady as he begins to buck
hard. "Oh, God," he moans, and gathers up the
comforter in shaking hands to keep himself from
grabbing Spike's head again and fucking his mouth
*hard* and then, oh, then, the world spins in dizzy
circles and he screams as he comes.
Spike pulls away, long throat working as he swallows,
and Andrew curls up on his side, trembling.
"You all right?"
"Yeah." As soon as feeling returns to his
extremities. He'll be just. fine.
Spike leans in to kiss him as he rolls over and Andrew
realizes that he's not drunk anymore, it's something
much worse than that, under the influence, he needs
this, he fucking needs it, Spike's mouth around his
cock, cool hands against flushed skin, anything, just
to stop feeling so fucking *untouchable* for once.
And now that he's tasted it-
-now that he's tasted it he wonders if he'll ever be
able to stop. To pull away, let it go. To survive
again, here, in this room, cold, alone. Without this.
He finds his hands on Spike's belt buckle, fingers
restlessly moving over cool metal and black leather,
hot palm against the bulge of Spike's crotch. Afraid
to move but God he wants Spike's cock so badly he's
about to *scream,* feels an animal cry of frustration
building in his throat, take me, fuck me, break me,
god won't you and all he can think, all he can say is-
"please," he whimpers. Fingertips hooking hesitantly
in the waistband of Spike's ragged jeans, the curve of
the vampire's abdomen cool and smooth against Andrew's
fingers. "Please, Spike-"
He wants. God, he wants. He can hear it screaming
inside him, it's deafening, his nerve endings are on
fire. He's never felt like this before, never wanted
like- oh, God, he *craves.* Never enough, please,
sir, I want some more, God it's never enough.
"Please. Don't stop-"
Feral grin, all gleaming teeth and flickering tongue,
hands unconcerned with gentleness or romance or even
patience as they tear at Andrew's clothes: shoes,
socks, jeans, boxers stripped away, blunt painted
nails scraping his thighs, buttons popping in protest
as his shirt is ripped violently from his body. He
gathers Spike's black t-shirt in his fists in
response, tugging at the cloth. The vampire grins
salaciously and strips his torso bare.
Thin and pale like him, but somehow on Spike it looks
right. Skin almost translucent, vanilla-pale, muscle
roped tightly over bone and Andrew can't seem to tear
his hands away. Spike feels cold now, like ice
against Andrew's flushed skin. He runs his hands
compulsively over Spike's chest and stomach, unsure,
afraid, terrified but goddamnit if he can't seem to
keep his fingers away from that fucking belt buckle,
loosening, unfastening, button and zipper, c'mon c'mon
c'mon-
Spike is cool and rock-hard in his grip and Andrew
moves his hand slowly, carefully
//what am i doing? christ, i don't know what i'm
doing//
The vampire tilts his head back, eyes half-lidded,
blue barely glinting beneath black lashes. Moans
softly and begins to rock his hips slowly against the
motion of Andrew's hand.
"Oh, that's- yes..."
"Am I doing this right?"
"Fine," Spike mutters breathlessly. "Yes, it's fine.
It's... shut up. God, you're so warm." Slow
friction, sliding in and out of Andrew's fingers. A
low groan. One hand reaches down, covering Andrew's,
guiding him. His other hand clutches at the back of
Andrew's neck, pulls him close, kisses him hard.
Teeth and tongue and the pressure of fingertips at his
throat, and Andrew moans deep into Spike's mouth,
quickening the motion of his hand.
"Oh, Christ." Spike pulls back, shaking slightly, and
quickly tears off the remainder of his clothing.
He crouches over Andrew, sliding snakelike up the
length of his body, skin gleaming-pale and eyes
famished. And Andrew panics, because it's *want* and
it's directed at *him,* sallow skin and jutting bone
and messy hair, Spike wants him, oh, God, Spike wants
*him,* Andrew, skinny, stupid Andrew, even if it's
only in the most superficial sense of the word and
that's not the way it works, it's weird and it's
*wrong,* so fucking *wrong* that his head spins
because and if he thinks too hard about it he's gonna
*freak* but he has to know "Why?"
Spike lifts his head from his current assault on
Andrew's ribcage. "Hmm?"
"Why?" he persists, voice cracking just slightly.
"Why me? You don't want me. I know you don't want-
no one ever wants- w-was I just- less repulsive than
anyone else at that bar, or-"
"Shut up."
Andrew swallows nervously. "Sorry. K."
Wide grin. "That's why," he whispers. "You do as
you're told, don't you, pet?"
"I do not." Andrew's a supervillain. Dammit.
"Is that so? Let's see-" a pair of lips down the
length of his jugular, nipping the tender exposed
flesh. Andrew trembles all over, hands tightening,
gathering nervous handfuls of his Star Wars bedsheets-
"and you're putty in my hands, aren't you?" The boy
moans as Spike's mouth works at his ear, whispers
softly there. "Scream my name when you come."
He nods wordlessly, and pulls Spike down on top of
him, warm to cool, flesh against flesh. Muscle to
bone. "I could do things to you. God." Teeth. Oh,
teeth everywhere, barely scraping. "Break you into
pieces, make you beg like a bitch in heat. Oh, I
could." He traces fingertips over Andrew's ribs, eyes
him hungrily. "Twist you and bend you to my will,
anything I wanted- God, you're so fucking breakable, I
miss that about humans- *anything.* You wouldn't stop
me. You wouldn't leave."
He wouldn't. At least not for a while.
"What about you?" Spike's expression hardens. "Why
do you want me?" the vampire snarls. "Tell me why you
want me."
"I'm afraid of you," he whispers in reply, breathless.
It's true. Half-true, anyway. A good enough reason,
and what he suspects Spike wants to hear.
Truth is Andrew would fuck anything willing right now.
Truth is Spike feels the same way.
Spike drags his fingers slowly down Andrew's ribcage,
fingertips testing thin skin and curves of bone. "Is
there-"
Andrew points wordlessly to the bedside drawer. A
house full of frequent masturbators always has lube.
Spike paws briefly through the drawer. "I can't
find-"
"There. Under the SFX magazines and the aboriginal
summoning flute."
"Geek," Spike says scathingly.
Forty-two species, three of which could remove Spike's
spleen through his nose, and the conjuring powder's
only an arm's length away. Andrew tightens his hands
into fists and swallows all the nasty things he wants
to scream back in reply. He can have dignity and
principles and righteous fury later, okay? Now is not
the time.
"You ever done this before?" Spike asks doubtfully,
squeezing lubricant onto his hand and sliding one
finger slowly into Andrew. He feels his body tighten
and he lets out a breath slowly before giving a
soundless nod.
The bong is three feet tall; Warren keeps it in a
cabinet with a lock that only he knows the combination
to. He spent two semesters in shop class perfecting
the design and the first time they used it he felt
like the top of his fucking head was coming off, he
was so high. Warren's eyes were dark that night, he
remembers, dark and oddly intense and he had just
broken up with Katrina, only days before. And then
he-
-he doesn't remember what happened. Not exactly.
That wasn't the first time they got stoned, or the
last, and even if he *can* remember, he knows that
Warren would rather not. But he knows he's done this
before.
"Relax, then," Spike says snappishly, adding a second
slickened finger, a third. Andrew grits his teeth
against the pressure, clenching his hands around
Spike's shoulders. "Maybe we should've given you more
to drink."
"I just woulda thrown up."
"Point well taken," Spike replies, and enters Andrew-
slowly, but not slowly enough for any semblance of
comfort. One stroke, two, pressing hard and Andrew
moans something that might be "yes" or might be "no,"
he isn't sure. Pressure, pain, ojesusgod*fuck*ow and
*hot,* God, he feels so *hot,* feverish and
light-headed and he thinks the world must be coming
apart at the seams, yes, it must, he's flying apart in
all directions and he just digs his fingertips into
the smooth muscles of Spike's back and grips harder
until the pain passes.
Slow, steady rhythm, almost nearly heaven but of
course not quite. It's close enough. Spike buries
his face in Andrew's throat, the tip of his tongue
tracing the boy's jugular as if he can taste the blood
beating below the surface of the skin, and Andrew can
hear-
-breathing. A soft pant, as if Spike needed the
oxygen. Habit? "Why are you doing that?"
"Whaa?"
"Breathing heavy. Why are you breathing? You're
*dead.*"
Spike rolls his eyes. "Shut up."
"I'm just sayin'..."
"Jesus *Christ,* shut up."
"Sorry." Spike's right; he's gotta learn to keep
quiet. No one wants to listen. He bites down hard on
his lip, silent as Spike pounds into him, because
there are so many things he wants to say that really
don't need to be said. *Look at me,* he begs in his
mind, *say my name. Tell me I'm not repulsive. Tell
me I'm a good fuck. Tell me I'm real, I *am* real, I
swear to God I am-*
"Oh, God," he moans, and he can't hold it back any
longer, he can hear his voice, so fucking loud in this
empty room, hoarse and breathless and screaming,
calling down all the gods and most of the lesser
demons and begging Spike to fuck him harder, harder,
*please* harder. He can't help but say "please." Not
because Spike wants him to ask permission or anything,
but because there's something in him that can't help
begging.
What Spike wants to hear is his name. He twists his
hands tightly through Andrew's hair and jerks the
boy's head back, forcing his gaze in Spike's
direction. His face changes, shifts, and Andrew wants
to look away from razor-sharp fangs and gleaming
yellow eyes but suspects it might be very hazardous to
his health to do so. "Look at me," Spike snarls
viciously, fangs snapping only inches away from
Andrew's face. "I want you to look at me when you
come. Look at me and say my name." He runs a hand
over Andrew's sweat-slick abdomen and finds his cock.
Pulls once, twice, so slowly, and the boy shudders in
delight.
"Look-"
"I *am.*" Those fangs are so, so sharp. Spike could
kill him, oh Christ Spike could kill him right *now*
and he very nearly hears himself begging for *that.*
He stares into those golden-blue eyes and thinks about
Spike's fangs sinking into his neck, thinks of his
blood burning in Spike's lovely long throat, thinks
about Spike leaving him a dead dry husk in this bed
and he's still thinking about that when he climaxes
with a strangled cry. He yells something when he
comes, and he's pretty sure Spike's name is in there
somewhere. He feels every muscle in his body pull
bowstring-tight and he clenches his fingertips hard
into Spike's back.
Those marks won't show, he thinks. He's sure that
Spike doesn't bruise easy at all.
Spike's eyes are tightly closed and he looks... he
looks... like he's not even here. And he's not, in a
way, and Andrew knows it, he never expected otherwise,
but still-
It hurts. Because he's not even a *body* anymore,
just an empty space. He starts to speak but he knows
his
voice will crack and break.
He wonders where Spike is now. He wonders if she's
pretty, whoever she is. He's sure that she is, as
sure as he is that Spike won't remember Andrew next
time he fucks her. She's better, after all. Better
because she wasn't willing to die at the tips of those
fangs and a sacrifice like that should *mean*
something but it doesn't. There is nothing here in
this bed that means anything at all. Andrew reaches
up, thumb in the hollow of Spike's cheekbone, and the
vampire opens his eyes. Reads the frustrated hurt on
Andrew's face. Rolls his eyes in derision.
It's his own fault, after all. Trying to make
something where there's nothing. He really should
know better; he wants Spike to close his eyes again.
The boy finally sighs, twists his head away. Stares
at the wall. "S'okay," he says dully. "I wouldn't
wanna think about me at a time like this, either." He
stares at the wall until Spike finishes.
He doesn't remember falling asleep. He wakes after
sunrise, with a piercing pain behind his eyelids, to
the sound of Spike getting dressed- zippers and the
soft swish of clothing.
"You leaving?" he asks, without rolling over to face
Spike.
"Yeah."
"Good." The others will be back soon, and he doesn't
know what they'd say if they came in to find Spike in
his bed. Maybe they wouldn't say anything at all.
Maybe Warren would just bitch about recruiting Spike
for the Forces of Darkness, and Jonathan would give
him that sad, understanding look he gives whenever he
smells mandrake root in the lair and knows that
Andrew's been summoning K'ashbadhi again. But maybe
they'd kick him out of the lair and out of the gang-
for having gay sex, vampire sex, whatever- and Andrew
can't have that. Getting laid is all well and good,
but Warren and Jonathan are all he's got.
"Look, mate," Spike starts, sounding a little hung
over, a little ashamed and a lot annoyed, "it's not
like we-"
Andrew rolls over, squints at the vampire standing by
his bed- pale, so pale in the morning sunlight barely
filtering through the windows. "Spike," he asks
seriously, "what's my name?"
Spike furrows his brow for a moment, doesn't answer.
Doesn't have the decency to look embarrassed, to look
away. Andrew is absurdly grateful for that.
//look at me. look right at me and see nothing.
everyone else does anyway//
"Get out."
"Sun's up, luv," Spike says quietly. Andrew closes
his eyes against the sudden sting of tears. Spike
probably calls everyone that. But still.
Love.
"You're inventive. I'm sure you'll figure something
out," Andrew snarks, pulling the blanket over his
head.
He doesn't hear Spike leave, but he knows he's gone;
he recognizes the way the room feels. He can feel the
empty spaces around him closing in, the places where
his brother doesn't appear, the space that the girl in
Spike's head should be occupying. The blank places
where Warren puts bruises that will only wither and
fade, given time. He reaches beneath the sheets and
runs one hand over his stomach, fingers seeking out
the twin pinpricks of scab and healing skin. His
wounds. Something that no one else can have now.
He hopes they scar.
~Finis
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