Lingual Masochist

Author : Renny (telekineticBURN)
Rating : T (language, mild violence)
Spoilers : Angel 5.11 "Damage", 5.20 "The Girl in Question",BTVS season 7 (general)
Summary : There are heroes and villians, epic love stories and epic battles, and then there is the quiet in between.

A/N : This is told out of sequence - the chronology is pretty clear but it starts in the middle of the story. It is sectioned into eight parts.

Hope you like it.

4. Danger : Low Voltage

They're gonna ask you things, baby, and you'd better be prepared.

Are you good enough? Man enough? (Straight enough?) Why do I want you? What was I thinking? Was I on drugs? Are you on drugs? 'Are you two on drugs right now!'

Fast and thick and Spike will want to rip your spine out through your hat. Territory, Andy, your mouth's been on his Nibblet.

I've just said that out loud and you're looking at me strange. Yeah, that did sound really wrong, and we're laughing but you know what I meant.

We've been caught red-handed. Unfair, sure, that you get all the blame - your hand but my shirt, am I right? - but I'm Dawnie and I'm innocent and I'm impressionable. They'll call you an idiot and laugh about it right up until you do something stupid like kiss me. Red-handed in Giles' office (note, that encyclopedia will have to be burned) and there's nothing that will save you now.

"Is there any way out of this?" you ask me, though maybe you don't intend it as it sounds.

"Well, there's always priesthood," I mutter, and brush invisible lint from your shoulder. "I guess celibacy doesn't sound so bad compared to standing up to Buffy."

It's evil, and it's easy, the way I can make you stutter. "I'm not afraid of Buffy," you tell me, voice edging falsetto. "She may be Xena, honey, but she's only a guest star in 'Hercules and the Amazon Women'."

Sometimes you're elocution really is appalling. There's a woosh as the reference goes sailing over my head. I rarely understand your words, but I love them. Lingually masochistic? There are worse relationship roadblocks.

It was two hours ago when I dragged you into Giles' study and hopped up onto the desk. You were clueless. You'd asked me, halting, what was wrong with the chairs, and then you were aghast at the wrinkles left in your pressed white collar when I hauled you in closer.

You'd just worked up the courage to cop a feel when Buffy breezed in and gave a convincing impersonation of Christina Aguillera circa '99. The banshee wail was impressive. Your excuses were not. You beat feet out of the room as fast as your lame-ass mock-Italian loafers would carry you, mumbling at Giles that this wasn't what it looked like.

'This'? This all started last year when you and Giles stopped by en route to Los Angeles. Your perm, my ruination. But you remember as well as I, so we'll save the synopsis for story hour downstairs.

"There is no way you can pin this on me," I point out. "What, I overpowered you? Took you against your will?"

"I didn't have a chance," you mumble, morose. "You're Elektra to my Murdock. I'm Marguerite Moreau to your Lestat, Townsend casting notwithstanding."

Crap. I think that just made sense. "Stop being decipherable," I command. "It scares me."

You lean in, grinning, and raise your hands in mock intimidation. "There's no escaping it. You're a geek now. I've infested your brain!"

I toss it back at you. You were right, after all. No chance. "So I guess we're stuck with each other then. We're foreigners on earth, nobody else speaks our language. Infested, alright. Remind me to give Buffy a call when we get to Vegas."

You stutter. "I didn't mean –"

I find I like you apoplectic. "Call me Dolly, 'cause you're my man. Make like a hockey player, shoot that puck in."

You blink once, then twice. Progress, progress. "You'd let me–"

There is a furious knocking at the door. Buffy's cacophonous voice rang out, "You two better not be doing anything gross! A sister knows!"

Call MasterCard, her timing is priceless.

The second time tonight, you spring away from me under the flush of Buffy's glare. "I didn't do anything!" you shout. "Look, hands in the air! Hands in the air!"

I smile wanly at her. "See? He's irresistable."

She shoots you a withering look. The brief moment alone we had while Buffy gathered the quorum is over. Giles is in the doorway, flanked by Xander and Willow (who's flanked by Kennedy, yes, everyone die of shock), and none of them look particularly happy. Perplexing, I spy The Immortal hovering in the hallway.

Vampires, demons, magic. What really mystifies me is why my dating life must be placed before the goddamn Senate.

"Dawnie," Buffy says calmly, "sit. Andrew, stand."

I take a mincing seat on the couch. Xander, behind everyone's back, lifts his eyepatch and grins. It's a macabre joke. He says he's winking at me incognito when he does that. Like a lot of things, I love him for it.

"Now that everybody's here," Buffy announces, "I think you two need to explain what I saw in the study this evening."

What, a book? I know it's shocking, Buffy, but they won't harm you.

I just barely don't say that aloud. You should be proud of me. Strangely, though, I think you already are.

"It was nothing," you said hurriedly. "Dawn was just... um... choking. On... uhm... innocence."

They aren't buying this. But they are enjoying it.

"I mean, Dawn was just… I was…" Then you go on entirely the wrong track. "See, Buffy, when a boy likes a girl, there's –"

"Oh, dear god," Giles sighes, glass-cleaning commencing full tilt, and Buffy looks ready to truncate you.

Decapitation. Look it up.

Willow smiles, and I wonder if maybe we aren't collecting some allies. "Dawnie and Andrew made with the smoochies?" she asks calmly.

"No," you stammer. "No, my intentions are entirely honorable. Dawn was merely..."

You can't finish that sentence and nobody wants to hear you try. You grind to a halt and seemingly deflate.

"This isn't what it looks like," you repeat. "This is a misunderstanding. This is that unfortunate '01 Othello remake."

"Re-imagining," I correct. And now you begin to destroy me.

"It was just a one-time thing, Buffy, I swear," you babble, afraid of your own skin, and that breaks my heart, too. Idiot. "Like in Wrath of Kahn, Uhura in the stripper outfit? Completely not what it looked like."

And, unbidden, here come more movie references.

"It won't happen again, Giles. Like Clint and the prostitutes in Unforgiven - totally not happening!"

Oh joy. Now your mind's stuck on hooker anologies. This will end well.

Your eyes turn wildly and catch mine. "Bonnie and Clyde, hey? Friend's, sure, but there ain't nothing there as far as Clyde's concerned."

"Because he was gay," I snipe.

"Because he was... manly. And felt no improper feelings toward Dawn. Bonnie. Damn." You sigh, scraping your blunt bitten fingernails through your dirty blond scalp. My fingers itch. (Look what you do to me, Andy.)

You're next reference is the last straw. Not that I understand any of it. "We were caught up in the moment. Farscape, episode 3.02, Chiana and Jothee? One time thing. She totally loves D'Argo!"

Spiteful, I've got a pop culture reference of my own: "I Know What You Did Last Summer," I tell you. "Me."