"You were friends, weren't you?"
They were sitting in a bar in Rome together, a common event these days. He was half-listening to Andrew, more focused on his thoughts (yes, he did think, ha ha bloody ha) than on what the boy-man was saying. Half-listening was still more than what he usually gave to the boy, but considering the topic at hand, it seemed best-more respectable-to at least respond. Besides, the bloke was easy to talk to-sometimes; sometimes he found himself slipping into conversation with him, scarily easy. They were almost friends, not that he would ever admit it. They would have to be to entertain the subjects that they did.
"With the Burkle woman, I mean. You were friends?"
What a cheery subject. He took another swig of his drink, knowing that it wouldn't make him feel any better but doing it anyway, perhaps out of habit.
He also took Andrew's, something lime green that smelt fruity, and he answered.
"Yeah. Bird had a way about her. Kind. Treated me better than I probably deserved."
He didn't realize that he was smiling, but Andrew did.
"Plus, she was kind of hot."
There was a pause as Spike looked at him, thinking about what he had said, deciding whether or not Andrew's contribute was worthy of a reply, or even being annoyed at.
". . . That she was too, mate."
"Some of the girls think that Dawn has a thing for me."
Spike can't tell if Andrew's worried or proud about this; maybe a mix of both.
He thinks of Dawn's past crush on him. Of her spending time with him in his crypt, of him promising to keep watch on her, of Glory, of Joyce taking a liking to him.
"Don't even think about it."
He doesn't think that he would kill Andrew. He doesn't like the feeling the idea of them together gives him. He would probably beat the man.
But he wouldn't kill him, doesn't even think of it, and when this occurs to him later, he has to stop to consider that maybe they are friends. So why does the idea of them being together bother him? Because she still gives off the kid sister vibes?
He assumes that that's the reason.
"Can you play any instruments?"
"Did you have much schooling while you were alive?"
"What type of books did you read?"
"Were you rich?"
"Have you met anyone famous?"
"What did you do for fun?"
Andrew is in one of his chattier moods tonight, and it's wearing on his nerves. Still, he tolerates it. He almost-almost-told him that while he was human, he wrote poetry.
He wonders what's wrong with him lately.
"I think you're way cooler than Angel. I don't know what Buffy sees in him."
"It's the forehead. Drives birds crazy for some reason."
"No, I don't think that's it. . ."
"I'm telling you, it's the bloody forehead!"
"If you say so. . ."
A moment of silence.
"Your forehead is more bad-ass."
And sometimes it's Andrew who he wonders about.
He drinks to the comment anyway.
Andrew notices his smile and feels accomplished.
"Since I'm only dead to you, I'm singin' stay away. ."
"Uh-huh. But if that's how you felt, why did you, um, keep trying?"
Andrew looks serious; not the smug look he's had since coming to Rome, not the look he uses when trying to be an adult, but the expression that he sometimes gets when they're talking about something that he isn't sure he can get away with. Spike hasn't seen this look on his face in front of anyone else. He doesn't know if it's reserved just for him. He doesn't ask; he doesn't want his companion-because that's what he's become-to know that he's been studying him.
He can tell when he's being studied, on the other hand, and he isn't sure if he's willing to let Andrew actually get to him.
He doesn't consider his answer; this is not a night for deep conversation, at least not on his part.
"Won't ever get anywhere in life if you give up, mate."
Of course, Andrew would use that bit of advice against him.
