When Xander parks up outside Buffy’s house, Andrew is practically vibrating in his seat. He has the look of a kid in the throes of a vicious sugar rush, and Xander feels as though he has spent the evening walking an untrained puppy. All the way around the supermarket he’d kept his hand on Andrew’s back or arm or shoulder to keep him from running off, but the guy had still bounced around the aisles, as excited as if he’d never been in a store before. Xander puts that down to having been cooped up inside for two weeks straight, and wonders if he’d be the same way. As it is, he’s kind of enjoyed having a couple of hours away from work and from potential Slayers. He doesn’t have Slayer-endurance, or the right hormonal combination to make being around stressed-out women a bonding experience, so he’s always grateful of an opportunity to escape the insanity for a couple of hours.
Andrew’s animated chatter had died down not long before they pulled into Buffy’s street, and Xander realises he hasn’t had such a pointless conversation in a long time. Everything at work is, well, work-related, and frivolity doesn’t really have a place in Buffy’s house right now. Which Xander gets, of course, because the end of the world is not the time to make with the laughs. It just feels good to take a break from ultimate evil and discuss Vanilla Coke versus original Coke (Andrew likes the Vanilla ‘cause it tastes like expensive cream soda), or the baking smells in the bread aisle (Xander swears that it’s piped in through the air vents to make people hungry). And it’s not like Xander did much talking anyway: mostly he just listened to Andrew’s random observations and wondered if the guy could focus on anything for more than a minute.
Now though, as they walk towards Buffy’s front door, Andrew has fallen oddly silent, and they can hear raised female voices before they even get to the porch. Andrew clutches his bag of new-old clothes like a security blanket and mutters a quiet “uh-oh” before they let themselves inside.
Before they even get through the door they are almost knocked off their feet as a vaguely familiar-looking girl sprints past, followed a second later by Kennedy, who shouts something about hairbrushes and respect. They take a moment to recover, then Xander steers Andrew towards the kitchen, in the direction of Buffy’s voice.
She acknowledges them with a nod of her head while still listening to a list of completed chores that Dawn is reeling off. The youngest Summers turns to see who has interrupted, raises an eyebrow at Andrew’s bright yellow shirt, then carries on talking to Buffy.
“I’m better find somewhere to hide these,” Andrew whispers to him, still staring at the bag in his arms. The clothes have been piled in on top of the stuff they’d bought, though not in any attempt to hide his disobedience to Buffy, Xander tells himself. Just because, you know…just because. After they’d picked up three pairs of plain white boxers (and he’d ignored Andrew’s protests that black would have been cooler, because he has to remember not to go too easy on the guy) and a discount pack of tube socks, Xander had gotten into the swing of things and thrown in a toothbrush, a can of deodorant and a pack of disposable razors, though he doubts if Andrew even needs them. He hasn’t had an opportunity to shave since he’s been held hostage, but he still looks as baby-faced as when Willow had brought him home. Heh. ‘He followed me home Buffy, can we keep him?’ Xander has to keep reminding himself not to think about Andrew that way. Cold-blooded killer and all that, right? But it’s hard when Andrew turns grateful puppy-eyes on him and says “thanks” for the eighteenth time since they left the store, and sidles out of the kitchen to hide his new possessions.
“Any problems?” Buffy asks him when Dawn has finished. Her voice is still business-like, so Xander guesses she doesn’t want to hear that yes, there is a problem, that they’ve been treating Andrew the way they’d treated the newly chipped Spike, except he’s just a bruised and broken boy and not a preternaturally strong vampire who might possibly have like the whole bonds and shackles thing anyway.
So he just tells her no, everything’s okay and Andrew should be quiet for a while now. She waits to see if there’s more, but Xander’s not sure if there’s anything else to tell her.
A series of thumps from upstairs breaks the silence, followed by another scream, possibly Kennedy again. Buffy rolls her eyes in a distinctly Giles-like manner, but Xander decides that pointing out that newly acquired mannerism probably won’t help to break the tension.
“You want me to stick around tonight?” he asks, and she responds with a thankful half-smile.
“Would you?”
He nods, trying not to show his own gratitude at her request. The chaos might be a bit much, but somehow it seems better than the cold quiet of his own apartment right now.
She looks around, just as a troop of potentials descend upon the kitchen and make a beeline for the fridge.
“I’m sure we have some space somewhere.”
*****
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