| Five Things That Never Happened to Andrew Wells
Author: Scarlet Disclaimers: I don’t own any of the characters depicted herein. Wish I did but it’s all Joss. Spoilers: Up to and including Season 7-Chosen Summary: Five stories of the Andrew That Never Was Pairing: Multiple and None (Shall I vague that up a bit for you?) Ratings Note: PG to NC-17 Author’s Note: I ran with the Five Things challenge I'd read about, though I don't know where the original challenge word for word is located. Feedback: Yes, please. scarletsfiction@yahoo.com URL: www.oocities.org/karenmnick ___________________________________________________________________________ Five Things That Never Happened To Andrew Wells I. Darkman Andrew's summoned these demons before. Many times, in fact. So when he sees the transparent, primate bodies he knows he's successful. It's hard to concentrate, however, with that guy staring in his direction. The one that's friends with Jonathan Levinson--the only guy at Sunnydale High School that's shorter than he is. Andrew is grateful for that. Grateful for Jonathan. He imagines high school would be marginally worse if he were the shortest kid instead of the second shortest. But that guy--the one with the too-big nose and the too-small eyes… Jonathan is laying out props, preparing swords for imaginary battles, and the guy--what does he do? Hovers, observes. Maybe he's Jonathan's boyfriend, Andrew giddily thinks. He knows all about things like that. Boys who like other boys. He's heard Tucker talk about "…those stupid faggots…" and Andrew is as intrigued as he is disgusted. He imagines large, strong hands on Jonathan's petite body and Andrew's own sweaty fingers clench hard around the wooden panpipe. Andrew lets his breath out slightly harder, playing each note carefully and watching the flying monkeys--like the Wizard of Oz, he thinks to himself, but larger and bluer--become more corporeal. It's all about concentration, but he's having a lot of trouble concentrating on his panpipe when Jonathan's boyfriend--Andrew giggles despite himself--is staring this way. He's taken special precautions, hiding backstage behind discarded armor and using a weak cloaking spell. He's only recognizable to other magic users, though in his darker moments he wonders if the cloaking spell is even necessary. The dark-haired man is looking right at him and his concentration wavers a tiny bit more. Dark hair, dark clothes. He's a dark man, Andrew thinks. Darkman. Like Liam Neeson, except probably without a destiny filled with skin disfigurement and murder. Darkman is coming closer, crossing from Jonathan's prop table to the backstage drinking fountain. Only getting a drink, Andrew thinks to himself and wonders if he's relieved or disappointed and then the Darkman passes the fountain and is heading purposefully toward stage left. Andrew is terrified, excited, aroused beyond anything he's ever experienced before. Dark eyes flash and those hands, wide and strong and covered with dark hair, are opening and clenching and Andrew catches his breath because *no one* talks to him, *no one* beautiful notices him. Certainly no one like this dark man whose heavenly, sinister mouth holds promises of things Andrew's only dreamed of in the sweaty moments before dawn. Even as his Darkman draws closer, Andrew's hands, damp and trembling, lose their grip and the panpipe crashes to the ground. The sound resonates through the backstage and Andrew freezes. Montagues and Capulets, teenagers with sour mouths and rolling eyes, leer in his direction and Andrew knows his spell is broken and his monkeys are gone before they even had a chance to shine. He hopes the cloaking spell is still working because Mr. Speer is gonna start stomping around stage left to find the lame-ass who made noise during Act One. And the Darkman. His beautiful Darkman is retreating with a shake of his head. Jonathan exchanges brief words with him and Andrew watches those hands descend to clasp Jonathan's small shoulders roughly. They shake their heads. They're dismissive and Andrew's still not sure what test he's failed, only that he *has* failed. It doesn't matter, though. Not really. He's used to it. Romeo, Romeo. Wherefore art thou, Romeo? His panpipe sits like an abandoned child and he lifts it and clutches it to his chest. Tucker's right. Summoning demons *is* dumb. Maybe he should try chess. II. Breaking the Ice It's hard to remember a time when he didn't love Jonathan. He thinks there might have been a time, long ago, when he didn't feel this way but he's tried hard to ignore any memory that doesn't have Jonathan in it. After all, who doesn't love Jonathan? Andrew stretches out in their bed and stares at the ceiling. It's painted with stars and planets. In the middle there are X-wings and a giant, ominous Deathstar. It was a present from George and his friends after Jonathan starred in the ninth Star Wars movie and Andrew thinks he'd like to die here in this bed with Jonathan and the big, big universe. He shifts and feels pain shooting through his bad leg. Something has healed wrong and now he'll always feel the pain in his leg--the one he hurt fighting that demon on Jonathan's property before he sent it to Quortoth. He still remembers the tune, still plays his panpipe to remember the day he and Jonathan first met. The way Jonathan, *the* Jonathan, had come to *him* of all people and asked for his help. He still thinks of how Jonathan looked: scared, desperate, his face red and sweaty. Now, that seems *wrong*. It's blasphemous somehow, because this is Jonathan. *The* Jonathan. Because even though Jonathan is perfect and everything, he still needed Andrew's help to get rid of the demon and that thought keeps Andrew awake nights. It keeps him up tonight. He stares at the Deathstar and wonders if they were using the Empire's revised designs from Return of the Jedi when they painted it, because he could swear the thermal exhaust ports were *above* the main port, and even as he's thinking that déjà vu rolls over him in icy waves. He listens to Jonathan's perfect breathing and looks at Jonathan's perfect face and tells himself that Jonathan came to him for help because he maybe kinda liked him and needed a way to break the ice and not because he was scared and didn't know what to do. Jonathan moans in his sleep and even his *moan* sounds perfect and Andrew smiles, his cock rising to life. Jonathan *is* perfect. Beautiful and perfect and so what if Andrew sometimes remembers a craggy-faced Englishman with soulful eyes starring in "The Living Daylights"? Those are only nightmares and can be dispelled with perfect kisses from a perfect mouth. Jonathan moans again in his sleep and Andrew can't wait any longer. He pulls the perfect body to him and Jonathan smiles as Andrew's hands undress him, snuggling happily into Andrew's inferior body. Andrew likes the lusty moans the best and intends to hear a lot of them tonight. But now, he's happy to run his hands over flawless skin and stare into the fake-endless space and forget the nightmares he half-remembers where Jonathan seems a bit too short. For now it's a bed, the Deathstar, and a perfect body and he love, love, loves Jonathan. But then again, who doesn't? III. As They Say When he's late, he runs. It's childish and immature and a "fucking waste of energy because you're already late" as Warren says. But Andrew still runs because being five minutes late for Warren or being fifteen minutes late for Warren means the difference between wry smiles or rough, violent hands. Andrew knows that tonight is important. He's worn his black shirt and pants that Jonathan calls his "mimewear" and he's fully prepared to both break, and enter a museum tonight. Andrew runs and runs and coughs because the air is thick with gas fumes in this part of town. The city. Andrew laughs as he runs, because imagining that Sunnydale could ever be called "the city" is too funny for a bunny, as his grandma used to say before she moved to Boca. Even as he laughs, his foot is striking something solid and he falls. He's spinning through the air, ass-end-over-teakettle as his mom used to say before she died, and then it's all about the hard ground under him, eating his skin and leaving dirty souvenirs on his hands and knees. Andrew doesn't want to move. He's fallen and fallen *publicly* and wherever he is--he can't remember now--people are sure to laugh and point. He knows, however, that he can't stay with his face pressed into the still-warm cement until the sun is entirely below the horizon. He can't be late. He tries one hand, then a leg, and attempts to get up The Espresso Pump. It could be worse. He could have fallen in the middle of the Sunnydale High School gym like freshman year, but this is only marginally better. There are claps and whistles and the occasional "Have a nice fall?" and he forces a false smile even as blood runs into his eyes and his hands feel on fire. He breathes deeply and prepares to limp away until a voice so unlike the sarcastic masses says, "Are you o-okay?" When he turns, Andrew is struck dumb. He isn't sure if it's the sweet voice or the luminous eyes but he thinks maybe he hasn't been so instantly in love with someone before in his life. He *almost* felt that way watching the pilot of Enterprise, but Captain Archer was on a small 13-inch screen in Jonathan's basement and this woman is breathing, talking, and looking so concerned only two feet from his face. "Are y-you hurt badly?" she stutters and he can only nod. She lends him a hand soft as a baby's butt, as Tucker used to say before he was arrested, and offers him a tissue from a beaded blue purse. The woman takes Andrew to her home, which isn't a home at all but a dorm room at UC Sunnydale. There are vague explanations: another girl, a broken promise, and hints of magic that Andrew identifies with. He tells her about his friends, his broken family, and how Tawarick sounds a bit like Hebrew. She bandages his wounds and cleans his scrapes and she's like his mom but not like his mom because mom was hard and cold and smelled of alcohol and this woman is soft and warm and smells of lemons and magic and heartache. She has no family and he has no family and that seems perfect, somehow. Destiny. They talk and they talk until the stars turn cold and the sky turns light. She knows about loving people who hurt you and he knows of broken promises. In the cold pre-dawn hours, Andrew gathers his bravery and dares a kiss that becomes more. They say love hurts, but Andrew isn't in pain. By the time the sun has risen, a plan has been made. Cleveland seems promising. There's an aunt there, maybe a job. She has a car and he has some money and it's strange and wonderful and more spontaneous than either have ever been in their life; but after twenty plus years of caution, neither is overly concerned. Planning has only brought them here: broken and hurt but patiently optimistic. They say love conquers all and he hopes that maybe they're right. They pack little and say no good-byes, only clasp sticky hands and hope for something better than what they've had so far. They're alike, Andrew and Tara. Both hurt, both healing. Together. IV. Death Becomes Them "Think. Willow brought something into this house. Something you can use." "The new microwave?" But Jonathan isn't talking about the microwave and Andrew realizes it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Then, in the next instant, he realizes that what Jonathan's talking about isn't even possible. Willow has the gun in her room and Willow scares him more than Warren ever did. But Willow has something else they can use and it isn't a gun. No one mentions the fact that Willow killed Warren or tried to kill the world and Andrew absently wonders why that is. Andrew knows Willow has recovered--is learning to work the magic and not letting it work her--but turning a blind eye in this house is rule and he knows that, if he wanted, he could use that to his advantage. He could use it because, in a small chest in the living room where they call daily Slayer-In-Training meetings, there's a baggie that shouldn’t be there. He wonders if Willow even remembers she still has it. Nightshade is called deadly for a reason and Andrew knows that not even the Warren/Jonathan/Thing knows how often he's imagined using it. That night, curled up under the dining room table in Dawn's discarded Strawberry Shortcake sleeping bag, Andrew dreams. Warren's hard, smooth cock is on his lips and Andrew can't imagine anything feeling so right or perfect. Can't imagine wanting anything or anyone as much as he wants Warren to be alive; but he knows that's never going to happen. Warren is dead and Jonathan is dead and he wakes gnawing his pruney wrist in damp boxers. He promises to himself that he'll wash Dawn's sleeping bag after the potentials go out tonight because he likes Dawn and it makes his chest ache thinking that she'll find out what he's been dreaming. Then Andrew makes breakfast and the potentials eat it. Then they leave. Andrew makes lunch and the potentials eat it. Then they leave. Andrew makes dinner and the potentials eat it. Then they leave. No one says "Thank you." That night, Andrew washes the sleeping bag. As he sits on the washing machine, it goes into the spin cycle and he rocks pleasantly. "Warren is going to ask you to do something and I think you should do it." Jonathan. Always Jonathan to grease the wheels and Warren to seal the deal. "What will he ask?" "Does it matter? Do it, man. It's totally cool. You know he has the best ideas and he has a really good one this time." "Why are you talking to me? You hate me. I killed you." It's time to change machines and add fabric softener sheets. Andrew does, trying not to look at blue eyes and freakishly long lashes. "Hey, I told you. Death is just the beginning, Andrew. Not as good as life in some ways, better in others. Just listen to him, okay?" "Okay." The dryer turns and the air gets warm and obscenely sweet-smelling--like perfume in a whorehouse--but Andrew drinks it in and thinks of Jonathan and Warren and when he dreams that night, Warren's cock is in his mouth and his hands are on Andrew's head. He moans and Warren moans and Jonathan watches and Andrew thinks that maybe that would have been okay. He wakes up tonguing his own wrist again and stays in the sleeping bag until all of the potentials have been herded into the bathroom. Then he dresses quickly and goes into the only room in Buffy's house that feels like home. Then Andrew makes breakfast and the potentials eat it. Then they leave. Andrew makes lunch and the potentials eat it. Then they leave. Andrew makes dinner and the potentials eat it. Then they leave. No one says "Thank you." The potentials begin giving him their clothes to wash. He doesn't mind. He's spending almost every night washing certain *things* anyway. He dreams a lot and Jonathan tells him that Warren has a plan. He listens and he dreams and he wakes with his mouth full but not with the right kind of fullness. Then Andrew makes breakfast and the potentials eat it. Then they leave. Andrew makes lunch and the potentials eat it. Then they leave. Andrew makes dinner and the potentials eat it. Then they leave. No one says "Thank you." When Warren finally comes to him, he knows he'll do whatever he says. Andrew isn't sure he can do it, of course. He can't kill Willow, who's he's terrified of, or Dawn, who he thinks he might have had a crush on in a parallel world. He can't even hurt Xander, who's self-effacing beauty makes Andrew love him and hate him at the same time because if Xander thinks bad thoughts about himself, what does that say about *Andrew*? He could never hurt them and even though Warren says he only has to kill the potentials, he knows that their deaths would hurt the others. Still… That night, he and Dream Warren make love on a blanket of familiar purple petals and when he wakes up, the sleeping bag is damp again. Then Andrew makes breakfast and the potentials eat it. Then they leave. Andrew makes lunch and the potentials eat it. Then they leave. Andrew makes dinner and the potentials eat it. Then they leave. Forever. V. Three He thinks maybe battles should be noisier. He thinks maybe that death should come with a great trumpet of sound and not with the soft grunts of exertion that he and Anya are giving off or the thick, meaty sounds of Bringer flesh being cut. He imagines movie sword fights, which always have that loud metallic clanking to let you know that a battle is going on. Real life isn't like that. Anya is good with a sword and there's only the occasional clang and more of that full, painful sound. He hopes it ends fast. Andrew is of little help and he knows it. Knows Anya could be fighting alone with the same success, but he's glad he can at least increase her odds. Maybe a Bringer will be distracted cutting him to ribbons and she'll be able to live long enough to take one or more down. This thought alone keeps him fighting. His fighting isn't a dance, the way some say fights are, but a bizarre mimicry of a dance: lurching, bobbing, stabbing randomly at un-Anya flesh and hoping to make a connection. She's backed into a corner but maybe that's okay because he can protect her better if he's in front of her. He tells her to back up; he tells her to crouch low--that he'll hold them off as long as he can. Andrew: the Human Shield. Coming soon to a theater near you. He feels the Bringer's sword even before it touches him. Déjà vu. Karma. Or is there even a name for knowing moments before you die that this is the end? He's not sure and he doesn't really care because it happens quickly. He knows. He feels. He falls. The Sunnydale High School floor feels cold and wet and he realizes in his last lucid moments that the wet is blood and the cold is linoleum and neither feel very good but they don't feel altogether bad. *Feeling* feels good and he's not sure why that should matter to him. He's not sure why, after a lifetime of neglect and pain and broken hearts, he--Andrew Wells--should be feeling good as he dies, but he does. Then he feels colder and the ground feels harder and he knows he's losing it. He's slipping away. He's dying. His body is trembling, or maybe it's the ground. He isn't sure and he doesn't really care. Then small hands are under his body, holding what's left of him together. He's grateful and he's pleased because the cold wasn't good anymore and he was becoming more aware that the pain would come at any moment. Then Andrew has a surreal sense of vertigo. Thinks of Alfred Hitchcock and Jimmy Stewart and how he could never have gone up to the bell tower to kill himself like Jonathan tried because he's seen "Vertigo" eighteen times and it doesn't get any less scary. He'd find another way. Knives or poison or bloody, apocalyptic fights he knows he's not going to win. "C-c-cold," he mumbles and then his face is pressed into a panting chest and he thinks maybe he shouldn't enjoy the feel of soft breasts under his cheek but he does. It takes him a moment to realize he's moving and that the panting is from extreme exertion. There are voices now. High, frightened voices and low, strained ones and the soft pillow of breasts is replaced with the hard cushion of lean muscle and flannel. He smells sweat now. He's moving faster. "We've got you." It's almost a whisper, but not quite. Private, but loud because there's other noise, now. Girls, lots of girls, and maybe Mr. Giles is speaking but Andrew can't be sure because--when did the florescent lights get so fucking *bright* except maybe those weren't lights but a big, burning sun and-- "We've got you." Another whisper, this time sweet and feminine and accompanied by salty tears. "Thank you, Andrew. Thank you…" Like water to a drowning man, he drinks up the closest things to endearments he could ever hope to receive. He's gone for a while and when he returns he's moving fast and the world is sliding by outside a window. The soft breasts are back but so is the flannel and something about that seems so *right* that he doesn't dare open his eyes. Instead he takes a shallow breath and let's himself slip off to who-knows-where, and as he goes he takes a moment to wonder why he still doesn't feel any pain. In the months to follow, Andrew hears many words. Hears "paraplegic" and "miraculous" and a dozen others that flow from the mouths of those that don't know what he knows and don't know how he feels. They think his life is lived on two wheels; that he exists in a chair plastered with Star Wars emblems and South Park bumper stickers. These words come from doctors who don't know about the house Xander designed and therapists that don't know about the ramps Anya helped install. The kind, forced words come from strangers who don't know about the big bed Andrew sleeps in that's large enough for three. At night he hears words, too. Words like "savior" and "hero" and "love" and "second chances." And sandwiched between hard muscle and soft breasts, Andrew thinks only of one word. Home. ~The End~ |