By the time Andrew is dressed, Xander has more or less pulled himself together. The sight of his original outfit, laying in a crumpled heap on the bed while Andrew changes in the bathroom, probably helps. If Xander pictures him in Bad Guy black, it’s easier to imagine him killing Jonathon and starting this whole new apocalypse, and then he can concentrate on his prison warden role instead of wanting to open the metaphorical cage and set the little rodent free.
He tries to hold on to that thought when Andrew re-emerges, still looking painfully skinny in baggy T-shirt and faded grey sweats. He pads across the floor to retrieve his clothes and shoes, bundling them up in his arms. Xander tries not to look at the bruised wrists; tries to remind himself that Andrew must be watched like a hawk or who knows what he’ll try. Doesn’t bother to speak as he collects detergent and fabric softener from the kitchen, because he can’t say for sure that his voice will hold.
They walk out the door side by side, and Xander places a palm on Andrew’s back. He feels the guy flinch at the contact, frozen for a moment like the deer that’s just spotted the hunter, then Andrew shifts and relaxes a little. When he’s certain Andrew isn’t going to try anything, his fingers curl and grasp a handful of lurid yellow T-shirt.
“You’re not going anywhere.” It isn’t a threat, just a reminder. He pulls slightly, and Andrew stumbles half a step back, until Xander releases him and leaves his palm to rest between Andrew’s shoulder-blades. “I just don’t need my neighbours to know I have a hostage.” His voice is low and even: if he tries to put any kind of emotion in it, he’s certain he won’t be able to finish speaking.
They carry on in silence. Xander holds back a gasp of surprise when they reach the top of the stairs and come face to face with Mrs Miller from the next floor up. She quirks an eyebrow at him, glancing between him and his captive, then simply mutters a confused “hello” before carrying on towards the next flight. She can’t know, Xander tells himself, there’s no way she can know. Beside him, Andrew has started to blush, and with a lurch to his stomach Xander realises how degrading this must be for him. It’s one thing to be a hostage in private, but now he’s being frogmarched through a public building. He increases his pace, pushing Andrew onwards, getting them to the laundry room as quickly as possible.
There’s no describing his relief upon finding that it’s empty. He closes the door behind them with a pointed glance at Andrew, letting him know again that he can’t run away, then takes Andrew’s balled-up clothes and stuffs them into one of the machines. They have automatic washing machines here, which are quiet and efficient, but leave Xander just a little nostalgic for some kind of interaction with the whole washing-drying process. There’s nothing to do in the laundry room but sit and watch the clothes go round and round. He’s even timed the basic wash/dry cycle of the combination machines out of sheer boredom, and has counted the number of times the drum spins in five minutes when it switches over to tumble-dry. The thought of spending one hour and twenty-three minutes in here with Andrew looms up like really dull tidal wave, and he decides they aren’t going to wait around for Andrew’s clothes.
Once the machine is programmed, he looks back over at Andrew and announces that they’re going back upstairs.
“It smells funny in here,” Andrew comments as he heads over to the door. It’s the first thing he’s said since he came back out of the bathroom, and it surprises Xander, so it takes him a moment to reply.
“That’s the smell of clean,” he points out. “Have you forgotten that already?” Andrew’s face creases into worried confusion. Xander just shakes his head and carries on out the door. When Andrew falls into step beside him, he realises that Andrew smells clinically fresh, with just a faint hint of Xander’s shower gel lingering on his skin.
Andrew loiters in the kitchen when they get back inside the apartment, evidently unsure what he’s supposed to be doing. Xander heads straight for the TV, flicking through stations with the remote to find the best way to kill one hour and twenty-three minutes (or is it twenty-one minutes since they walked back upstairs?). On some chat-show, a woman built like a candied apple on a stick is yelling at her even rounder husband for doing the dirty with her brother, and Xander decides he isn’t going to find better entertainment at this time of day, so he sticks with that station, dropping on to the couch and kicking off his shoes.
“You can sit down, you know.” Andrew still stands by the door, his shoes in his hands, looking completely lost. He dithers a moment more, then steps cautiously across the floor to perch himself on the couch. Like a wild rabbit, Xander decides. The ones that look up from what they’re doing every few seconds to check for danger. The ones that are always ready to run away. He wonders again how this guy ever passed for evil.
Five minutes later and Andrew’s yelling at the apple-woman for being a complete idiot.
“Why the heck did you marry him in the first place? He’s the gayest thing I’ve ever seen!”
Xander stopped watching the show as soon as Andrew started talking back to it. He’s finding the shouting in his living room far more entertaining. Andrew has said more in the past minute than he’s said since they left Buffy’s house.
When they were kids, Willow gave Xander a kaleidoscope for his birthday. He’d hold it up to the light and keep turning it, so the colours kept changing and cycling. Watching Andrew is like watching a human kaleidoscope. It takes just the slightest distraction to turn him and make him change. It’s probably just a short attention span, Xander decides, but it’s like meeting an entirely different Andrew.
Xander remembers the hunted-look he saw on the guy’s face earlier, the punished figure standing awkwardly in just a green towel, and thinks Andrew is either the greatest actor he’s ever seen, or just far too used to punishment.
*****
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