Xander realises distractedly that Andrew is the first non-Scooby to visit the apartment. Not counting Toth, of course, who wasn’t really visiting, just passing through while trying to kill him.
He knows he’s supposed to feel as if his privacy is being invaded, but he’s too busy being annoyed with Buffy. He wasn’t given money to buy new clothes for Andrew. He wasn’t even allowed to buy new clothes out of his own cash. Instead, he has strict instructions to clothe Andrew with the stuff in his own closet. Apparently if he’s taken to a store, he could do something evil.
He decides that sympathy sucks, and makes a mental note never to do it again. Until Andrew steps a little closer and provides him with a very pungent reminder of why he got sympathetic in the first place.
“Bathroom’s through here,” he mumbles, walking as though he’s showing the way and not trying to step out of range of the smell. Andrew’s head is ducked when Xander glances back to check he is following: he probably knows why Xander doesn’t want to get too close, and Xander feels embarrassed for both of them. It’s a relief when Andrew steps past and into the bathroom, offering a quiet “thanks” before closing the door.
Xander tries to remember if there are clean towels in the bathroom. Now that it’s just him in the apartment, he tends not to worry about things like that. A brief rush of loneliness washes over him: not lonely for Anya, he reminds himself. Just the general everyday loneliness that comes from living alone and not having anyone else to clean up for or talk to when the silence gets too much or hold at night all scrunched up on one side of the big old bed that was made for two people anyway and –
The pipes rumble as the shower is turned on, tearing through his daydream and reminding him he is here for a reason.
He’s never been too crazy about fashion, always thought clothes were just something to keep you warm and hide your hide-ables, but staring at the stuff in his closet, Xander suddenly can’t bear to part with anything. Not for Andrew, anyway. There isn’t much anyway; jeans and T-shirts for work, a couple of dress-shirts from when he still had time to go out after work, and two off-the-rack suits for meetings and such. There’s never been much need to own anything else, unlike the girls who seem to never wear the same thing twice. He wonders briefly if Buffy’s closet is some kind of TARDIS, because he’s seen her in more different outfits than could possibly fit in her entire house. They’re on a Hellmouth after all, so anything’s possible.
Xander’s not even sure if he owns anything that will fit Andrew. Well, maybe the T-shirts will do, since it doesn’t matter so much if they’re too big. He digs out a couple of his less-ratty work-shirts and tosses them on the bed. There’s an old hooded sweatshirt too, and a black jacket he bought ages ago without trying it on, only to find it was far too tight across the shoulders. Gotta say one thing about living on a Hellmouth: staking vampires is great upper body exercise. All the crap he eats and he’s only buffed up over the years.
So there are no old jeans that are conveniently too tight, or cords that he’s outgrown. He has to rummage through every shelf and pile and rack twice before he discovers an old pair of sweats that he thought he’d lost in the laundry room. The water stops humming in the pipes as he gathers his finds together, and he realises with an odd sense of worry that Andrew’s been in the shower for about ten minutes. Evidently he hasn’t done a bunk, if he’s still around to turn off the water, and Xander’s certain that even if Andrew could fit through the bathroom window, he wouldn’t relish the three-storey drop to the ground. Unless he has some kind of flying mojo, or some demon to help him down, or –
No, because Andrew’s stepping out of the bathroom, both hands clutching at the green towel around his waist. It’s a few seconds before Xander realises he is staring.
He knows they’ve been feeding Andrew: he and Dawn are usually the ones who get stuck with eating with him because he’s forbidden from sitting to the table with everyone else (mostly because they don’t want him around). Still, he almost looks like he’s spent the last two weeks in a concentration camp and not Buffy’s living room. Xander tries to reassure himself that it’s mostly from hiding out in Mexico with no home and no money, but it doesn’t help. The blotchy bands around his wrists are yellow and grey, like the middle of an over-boiled egg. They don’t tie him up so much anymore: just at night, and when Buffy and Willow. Still, Xander knows he’s responsible for those bruises. He was the first to strap Andrew to that chair, and oh crap Andrew’s been sleeping in that chair for how long now? Which probably explains the shadows under his eyes, the ones that make him look so haunted. Only slightly less obvious are the two neat little puncture marks on his neck, turned bright white and pink by the water and standing out from skin that looks like it’s been scrubbed raw in the shower.
They’ve done this, Xander realises. They’ve done this to another human being. All Buffy’s reminders about him being a murderer don’t seem to wash anymore, not when Andrew’s standing there in a towel, squirming under his stare and unable to look him in the eye. He doesn’t look evil. He doesn’t even look mildly irritating. Andrew just looks like he wants to cry.
Xander swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and wonders if he’ll ever get that image out of his mind. He clears throat and turns away to fish the sweats and a T-shirt out of the pile. When he hands them over, his cheeks flush because he can’t look Andrew in the eye either. Andrew stands there for a moment, then “um”s so that Xander has to look up to see what the problem is.
“I, uh, need clean underwear,” Andrew explains in a small voice that’s only slightly reminiscent of his usual whine.
Xander nods in realisation, and glances across at the chest of drawers where his own is kept. Andrew’s need may be great, but the idea of someone wearing his underpants just doesn’t bear thinking about. He contemplates the problem for a moment, quickly reaching a decision.
“We’ll take your stuff down to the laundry room then you’ve got some for today. Then we’ll stop somewhere on the way home. I don’t care what Buffy says – you should at least get clean underwear.”
Andrew’s grateful smile at that one small mercy is too much, and he has to look away.
*****
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