Andrew ficathon Post: Playing With Fire
May. 30th, 2004 02:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chickenTitle: Playing With Fire.
Author: Carole (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chicken_cem)
Written For:blinkytreefrog.
For the: Andrew ficathon.
Pairing: None.
Genre: Angsty (request was for 'no fluff').
Rated: PG-13 on the edge of R maybe. Not sure.
Setting: Post-Damage.
Disclaimer: Our Andrew and All Characters Really Belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, et al. Pas moi. The Usual.
Thanks to my Betas:
Kazkaz814
Marymaryavatar
Jenjenoofer
and especiallysuperplin, for her help fixing the bad Italian I got from Google!
Yes,wickedprincess3, you do have permission to archive at Funnel Cakes and Flying Monkeys.
"What did you say?" "Che hai detto?" "Qu'est-ce que tu a dit?"
Andrew shouted above the loud music in the club, trying to keep up his end of the flirtation.
The guy was pretty cute: bleached blond hair, sharp cheekbones, looked good in leather. So what if his eyes weren't blue? It was good enough to fool his libido for half an hour -- a way to pass the time, a way to avoid the thoughts his therapist kept telling him to deal with. Andrew thought his name might be something like "Niccolo", "Marco", or "Paulo". He decided just to call him "Marco" since it was easier to say. Remembering stuff like phone numbers and people's names was just a little harder since he'd been knocked out by that loco L.A. slayer.
The kid had to be in his twenties, but his manner was so ebullient and bubbly that he seemed only eighteen. Too bad everything he said made no sense. Andrew recognized a few phrases, a word here and there, but the Italian came tumbling out of the boy so quickly that he couldn't even catch the general gist. So he just kept yelling "What?" and "Yep!" in English and Italian, and sometimes even French or Tawarick, just for good measure. He nodded his head vigorously and tried to smile at Marco as if he understood.
Finally, he just gave up, threw a random pile of Council-provided cash onto the bar, and dragged the guy outside. By the time they arrived at his appartamento, the blond boy was grabbing his ass from behind on the staircase, making flirty noises, and giggling a bit. They rushed inside and Andrew lit the cheap fake log he'd bought for the fireplace.
Marco definitely looked more like a certain blue-eyed someone in the firelight, more ominous, more impressive, so Andrew went with it.
As the lanky tipo sucked and nibbled and humped, his mind kept drifting off to a small California town, to plaster bursting around him and fangs in his neck, and blood running moist and warm down his chest. By the time he came with a shudder, Andrew had forgotten who he was with, where he was, what day it was. He put his hand on the right side of his neck and was surprised not to encounter the bandage or feel the crustiness of dried blood just below it.
He heard words in a language he barely recognized, and felt a pair of hands shoving him.
"Dove sono i soldi? E' ora di andare ... tanti altri clienti!"
Andrew remembered where he was, and look into the face of his companion, an oddly angry face, saying things to him using unknown words.
Andrew shrugged. What the hell did that mean? So he just grabbed Marco's arm and led him over to the fridge.
"Calm down, I'll get us some vino. I ran out of Zima." Marco just grabbed it right out of his hands and took a swig right from the bottle. His face relaxed a little, but he just kept gabbing.
"Dammi i soldi! Dammi i soldi!"
After another twelve repetitions and a grab at his wallet, Andrew finally realized what it meant.
"What? You want *money*? You're ... you're ... a ... a *prostitute*? Wha--" Andrew tossed the wine bottle aside angrily and glared at the guy, who shoved him again, stumbling on the bottle and rolling it towards the fireplace. A breeze from the open window wafted towards the fire, and it leapt out of its containment. The flames crept along the trail of wine that seeped out of the bottle towards the curtains.
But Andrew didn't notice, because he was trying to pry his wallet out of the deceiving hooker-boy's hands. It dropped to the floor and they both dove for it. Struggling and fighting on the floor, they rolled right into the flames.
******
In retrospect it seemed inevitable that the thieving pocket prowler had made away with the wallet and disappeared before Andrew even made it to the sink to douse the flames running up his trousers towards his still-unzipped fly.
"Cultural misunderstanding!" he kept repeating to Buffy, to Giles on the phone, and to the other Council members who wanted to know why all the money they gave him for his slayer locating duties had just vanished. Buffy just sighed and rolled her eyes. Of course, she might have gotten angrier if she hadn't been otherwise occupied, snuggling on the couch with the Immortal. Giles lectured him sternly about responsibility and upholding Watcher standards, and the Council's accountant made it clear that his paycheck would be non-existent for the next few months.
After the fifth lecture from Giles, Andrew quickly called his old therapist back in England before the phone could ring again. He must have sounded pretty desperate and depressed, because the therapist gave him an immediate referral to see the most esteemed expatriate psychiatrist in all of Italy, a man whose office was conveniently located only a few blocks from Buffy and Dawn's flat.
Visit after visit on this Dr. Dibley's couch made Andrew wish he still had some hope, false or otherwise, to hold on to. Some sign that Spike would call or show up on their doorstep, even if it was only to speak with Buffy. If he could only touch Spike, hug him, maybe the increased craving for teeth in his neck would drown out the other thoughts. Maybe Spike's touch would awaken such strong visions about naked horny vampires that he wouldn't have the Dreams anymore.
But Spike never showed up, and so at night Andrew dreamt of a bloody knife. He dreamt that Jonathan was whispering sad stories into his ear. They would be lying in the big bed in Mexico, and they would never have any books other than the English-Spanish dictionario. So they'd take turns telling stories to while away the time or to lull one another to sleep, as if they were just kids, as if one of them was the kind older brother, as if they were the best of friends with all the trust in the world between them.
Andrew's favorite story was always the one about the twin sisters. Jonathan said these sexy babes had once lavished much attention on him, but he could never quite remember when. The story was always really good until Jonathan's voice grew too wistful and sad over these lost beauties, and then the bed in Mexico would fade away, and Jonathan/The First would be glaring at Andrew and accusing him. The microwave instruction booklet would thud to the floor along with his last oven mitt, and the breath would always catch in his throat.
"It's all your fault, Andrew. It's your fault I never got to love those girls. It's like you stabbed me right in my tender heart, Andrew. You stuck a knife in me and cut out all my hopes and dreams."
Jonathan would fade, but his accusing voice would remain. The funnel cake would kick his ass again, and he wouldn't understand how to use the microwave and his popcorn would burn and catch on fire. He would smell the smoke and feel the flames edging up his trousers, and then he would be in the high school, smelling the smoky death of the Hellmouth. The dream would nearly suffocate him; Anya would inevitably whirl around as she drew her last breath, exhaling with a puzzled expression on her face, and Andrew would be unable to save her, as if he were paralyzed by smoke inhalation, selfishness, or plain evil.
Every night at this precise point in the dream, the sheets would twist in a strangle-hold, and Andrew would burst out of the dream in a cold sweat.
*****
The day Harmony called him to say that Angel and Spike were flying in ASAP, Andrew was finally able to tell Dr. Dibley about the whole dream, because the news caused something to shift in his head. That night, he dreamt that Jonathan was sitting straight up on the bed next to him, looking into his eyes and speaking in a steady voice rather than the usual whisper, telling him that he was a hamster on an endless loop, and that no one would forgive him if he never forgave himself. Jonathan seemed strong and confident, and together they faded off the bed and into a grand mansion. "They're waiting for you, Andrew. Go on ... *someone* ought to enjoy their company, and you know that isn't a chance I have anymore. I'm giving them to you. It's my way of telling you to stop torturing yourself. Just because you did this to me doesn't mean we *both* have to suffer forever. Move on, Andrew."
Andrew didn't really want to be with the pretty girls because he wished they were cute twin boys instead (maybe the two Xanders that Anya had once told him about) but he acquiesced because it made Jonathan happy.
The next day Buffy kept trying to explain some kind of confusing baking story to him, even though she didn't even have any oven mitts yet. "You're cookie dough," she kept saying. "We all have to move on," she added.
When he returned to the bar at last, Andrew was amazed when two pretty Italian ladies chatted him up. They handed him an English-Italian phrase book with their phone number written on the inside cover.
The next day, Spike and Angel showed up at his door. Spike didn't look like he wanted a hug from anyone, so Andrew pushed away the thoughts of naked fanged vampires. He put on a happy face and passed on the stuff about moving on. It seemed like the right thing to do.
Author: Carole (
chicken_cem)Written For:
blinkytreefrog.For the: Andrew ficathon.
Pairing: None.
Genre: Angsty (request was for 'no fluff').
Rated: PG-13 on the edge of R maybe. Not sure.
Setting: Post-Damage.
Disclaimer: Our Andrew and All Characters Really Belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, et al. Pas moi. The Usual.
Thanks to my Betas:
Kaz
kaz814Mary
maryavatarJen
jenooferand especially
superplin, for her help fixing the bad Italian I got from Google!Yes,
wickedprincess3, you do have permission to archive at Funnel Cakes and Flying Monkeys."What did you say?" "Che hai detto?" "Qu'est-ce que tu a dit?"
Andrew shouted above the loud music in the club, trying to keep up his end of the flirtation.
The guy was pretty cute: bleached blond hair, sharp cheekbones, looked good in leather. So what if his eyes weren't blue? It was good enough to fool his libido for half an hour -- a way to pass the time, a way to avoid the thoughts his therapist kept telling him to deal with. Andrew thought his name might be something like "Niccolo", "Marco", or "Paulo". He decided just to call him "Marco" since it was easier to say. Remembering stuff like phone numbers and people's names was just a little harder since he'd been knocked out by that loco L.A. slayer.
The kid had to be in his twenties, but his manner was so ebullient and bubbly that he seemed only eighteen. Too bad everything he said made no sense. Andrew recognized a few phrases, a word here and there, but the Italian came tumbling out of the boy so quickly that he couldn't even catch the general gist. So he just kept yelling "What?" and "Yep!" in English and Italian, and sometimes even French or Tawarick, just for good measure. He nodded his head vigorously and tried to smile at Marco as if he understood.
Finally, he just gave up, threw a random pile of Council-provided cash onto the bar, and dragged the guy outside. By the time they arrived at his appartamento, the blond boy was grabbing his ass from behind on the staircase, making flirty noises, and giggling a bit. They rushed inside and Andrew lit the cheap fake log he'd bought for the fireplace.
Marco definitely looked more like a certain blue-eyed someone in the firelight, more ominous, more impressive, so Andrew went with it.
As the lanky tipo sucked and nibbled and humped, his mind kept drifting off to a small California town, to plaster bursting around him and fangs in his neck, and blood running moist and warm down his chest. By the time he came with a shudder, Andrew had forgotten who he was with, where he was, what day it was. He put his hand on the right side of his neck and was surprised not to encounter the bandage or feel the crustiness of dried blood just below it.
He heard words in a language he barely recognized, and felt a pair of hands shoving him.
"Dove sono i soldi? E' ora di andare ... tanti altri clienti!"
Andrew remembered where he was, and look into the face of his companion, an oddly angry face, saying things to him using unknown words.
Andrew shrugged. What the hell did that mean? So he just grabbed Marco's arm and led him over to the fridge.
"Calm down, I'll get us some vino. I ran out of Zima." Marco just grabbed it right out of his hands and took a swig right from the bottle. His face relaxed a little, but he just kept gabbing.
"Dammi i soldi! Dammi i soldi!"
After another twelve repetitions and a grab at his wallet, Andrew finally realized what it meant.
"What? You want *money*? You're ... you're ... a ... a *prostitute*? Wha--" Andrew tossed the wine bottle aside angrily and glared at the guy, who shoved him again, stumbling on the bottle and rolling it towards the fireplace. A breeze from the open window wafted towards the fire, and it leapt out of its containment. The flames crept along the trail of wine that seeped out of the bottle towards the curtains.
But Andrew didn't notice, because he was trying to pry his wallet out of the deceiving hooker-boy's hands. It dropped to the floor and they both dove for it. Struggling and fighting on the floor, they rolled right into the flames.
******
In retrospect it seemed inevitable that the thieving pocket prowler had made away with the wallet and disappeared before Andrew even made it to the sink to douse the flames running up his trousers towards his still-unzipped fly.
"Cultural misunderstanding!" he kept repeating to Buffy, to Giles on the phone, and to the other Council members who wanted to know why all the money they gave him for his slayer locating duties had just vanished. Buffy just sighed and rolled her eyes. Of course, she might have gotten angrier if she hadn't been otherwise occupied, snuggling on the couch with the Immortal. Giles lectured him sternly about responsibility and upholding Watcher standards, and the Council's accountant made it clear that his paycheck would be non-existent for the next few months.
After the fifth lecture from Giles, Andrew quickly called his old therapist back in England before the phone could ring again. He must have sounded pretty desperate and depressed, because the therapist gave him an immediate referral to see the most esteemed expatriate psychiatrist in all of Italy, a man whose office was conveniently located only a few blocks from Buffy and Dawn's flat.
Visit after visit on this Dr. Dibley's couch made Andrew wish he still had some hope, false or otherwise, to hold on to. Some sign that Spike would call or show up on their doorstep, even if it was only to speak with Buffy. If he could only touch Spike, hug him, maybe the increased craving for teeth in his neck would drown out the other thoughts. Maybe Spike's touch would awaken such strong visions about naked horny vampires that he wouldn't have the Dreams anymore.
But Spike never showed up, and so at night Andrew dreamt of a bloody knife. He dreamt that Jonathan was whispering sad stories into his ear. They would be lying in the big bed in Mexico, and they would never have any books other than the English-Spanish dictionario. So they'd take turns telling stories to while away the time or to lull one another to sleep, as if they were just kids, as if one of them was the kind older brother, as if they were the best of friends with all the trust in the world between them.
Andrew's favorite story was always the one about the twin sisters. Jonathan said these sexy babes had once lavished much attention on him, but he could never quite remember when. The story was always really good until Jonathan's voice grew too wistful and sad over these lost beauties, and then the bed in Mexico would fade away, and Jonathan/The First would be glaring at Andrew and accusing him. The microwave instruction booklet would thud to the floor along with his last oven mitt, and the breath would always catch in his throat.
"It's all your fault, Andrew. It's your fault I never got to love those girls. It's like you stabbed me right in my tender heart, Andrew. You stuck a knife in me and cut out all my hopes and dreams."
Jonathan would fade, but his accusing voice would remain. The funnel cake would kick his ass again, and he wouldn't understand how to use the microwave and his popcorn would burn and catch on fire. He would smell the smoke and feel the flames edging up his trousers, and then he would be in the high school, smelling the smoky death of the Hellmouth. The dream would nearly suffocate him; Anya would inevitably whirl around as she drew her last breath, exhaling with a puzzled expression on her face, and Andrew would be unable to save her, as if he were paralyzed by smoke inhalation, selfishness, or plain evil.
Every night at this precise point in the dream, the sheets would twist in a strangle-hold, and Andrew would burst out of the dream in a cold sweat.
*****
The day Harmony called him to say that Angel and Spike were flying in ASAP, Andrew was finally able to tell Dr. Dibley about the whole dream, because the news caused something to shift in his head. That night, he dreamt that Jonathan was sitting straight up on the bed next to him, looking into his eyes and speaking in a steady voice rather than the usual whisper, telling him that he was a hamster on an endless loop, and that no one would forgive him if he never forgave himself. Jonathan seemed strong and confident, and together they faded off the bed and into a grand mansion. "They're waiting for you, Andrew. Go on ... *someone* ought to enjoy their company, and you know that isn't a chance I have anymore. I'm giving them to you. It's my way of telling you to stop torturing yourself. Just because you did this to me doesn't mean we *both* have to suffer forever. Move on, Andrew."
Andrew didn't really want to be with the pretty girls because he wished they were cute twin boys instead (maybe the two Xanders that Anya had once told him about) but he acquiesced because it made Jonathan happy.
The next day Buffy kept trying to explain some kind of confusing baking story to him, even though she didn't even have any oven mitts yet. "You're cookie dough," she kept saying. "We all have to move on," she added.
When he returned to the bar at last, Andrew was amazed when two pretty Italian ladies chatted him up. They handed him an English-Italian phrase book with their phone number written on the inside cover.
The next day, Spike and Angel showed up at his door. Spike didn't look like he wanted a hug from anyone, so Andrew pushed away the thoughts of naked fanged vampires. He put on a happy face and passed on the stuff about moving on. It seemed like the right thing to do.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-05-30 05:38 pm (UTC)This is really great! I really enjoyed it.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-05-30 11:14 pm (UTC)There should be more Xander/Andrew/Spike threesomes, too.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-05-30 11:46 pm (UTC)and I was only teasing about the xandrew thing, this was really good!