He doesn't speak until the car is halfway down the street.
"You know they'd have ripped you to pieces, right?"
Beside him, Andrew is entirely still, eyes closed and hands clasped tightly in his lap. Xander wonders if he's heard a single word. He's about to try again, when -
"I know." Andrew's voice is a whisper, of the 'I still can't believe I'm alive and don't want to jinx it' variety.
He wants to be mad. He wants to yell at Andrew for making Buffy mad, and for pissing off the potentials who certainly don't need anything else to worry about right now. He just doesn't know where to start. Andrew's probably spent the whole day cooking meals and dividing them into microwaveable portions, thinking it's a helpful, thoughtful thing to do. Which it probably is, Xander decides. It's just… they didn't ask for help. They're supposed to be strong and independent and all Amazon-like, and that means no help from men. Especially boys who get scared by raised voices and prefer wielding a spatula to a stake. That's not what Slayers do. Or it's not what potentials think Slayers should do. Not that he can explain any of that to Andrew.
"They're scared," he says instead. "They don't know what they're doing, they can't keep up with what's happening and they can't admit that to Buffy."
"But why does everyone take it out on me?" Xander hasn't heard that whine in a couple of days. It's not pleasant. In fact, it's kind of adding to his headache. Andrew folds his arms, and Xander's certain that if he were standing, he'd be stamping his foot too.
"Because you're the closest thing they've got to a real, physical bad guy right now." He's only guessing, but it sounds pretty plausible, so he decides to stick with the theory. The potentials can't fight the First, and they can't fight Buffy, so they go for the easiest options: fighting each other and Andrew.
"But I'm helping!" Andrew pouts, unfolds his arms, then folds them again out of sheer frustration. "I don't deserve this!"
"You're a hostage!" Xander's head is threatening to pop again, and the only thing stopping him from turning around and dropping Andrew on Buffy's front porch again is those damn hunted eyes that flash in his memory at the worst possible times. He has to know he's doing the right thing: has to know he can't let them cross the line.
"But I'm good now," Andrew continues, turning in his seat to face Xander. "I'm helping. I've abandoned the Obsidian Order and I'm decoding messages for Starfleet. What more do they want from me?"
He can't hold back a sigh. It's all he can do not to close his eyes, to try and shut out Andrew's pleading expression. Instead he fights to keep the car steady, pressing a little harder on the gas pedal.
"I know you're trying," he tells his passenger, who waits expectantly for his advice, "but they don't need a chef. We're talking about the end of the world here, Andrew, and you can't fight that with cookies."
They watch the road in silence. The wheels hum over the asphalt.
"Um, where are we going?" Andrew asks, after almost a whole minute's peace.
Xander sighs again.
"I've had a day and a half at work. I need to shut down. I want TV and carbohydrates and canned laughter." He tries to imagine himself stretched out on his couch with a beer and a bag of chips. Then wonders if he has any beer. Or chips. Or food of any kind that doesn't require any effort. He draws a blank. "I'm going home."
Which turns out to be an adventure by itself, because as Andrew chatters on about what's on TV, he spots the video store and decides instantly that a film will be much better than anything television has to offer tonight. Xander's in no mood to fight any more, and he allows himself to be led inside, where the fluorescent lights buzz like wasps and hurt the insides of his eyes.
They argue because Xander's already seen 'Spiderman' and doesn't think it stands up to repeat viewing. They argue about whether 'Freaked' is really science fiction or just gross-out comedy. Then they team up and argue with the clerk who thinks Alice Krige was a better villain than Ricardo Montalban. Xander thinks if it weren't for the headache, it might be the most fun he's ever had while fully clothed.
Not the arguing, which makes his head throb, and certainly not listening to Andrew's petulant whining, but being around somebody who gets it. Willow tries: she can tell the difference between Doctor Zimmerman and the EMH, and she agrees with Xander's theory that 'Space Precinct' was just a way of using up left-over alien suits, but she's not cut out for 'Outer Limits' marathons or discussions about subtext in 'Farscape'. Buffy doesn't pretend to care, and Dawn stopped thinking it was cool the moment she started crushing on Spike.
Xander finds himself wondering what it must have been like to hang out with Jonathan and Warren in Nerd Central. Before Warren went psycho, of course.
They eventually make it back to the apartment bearing Doritos and a copy of 'Thumb Wars: The Phantom Cuticle', which the clerk highly recommended. Xander's certain it was just to get them both out of his store, but Andrew seemed okay with it so he doesn't complain. Andrew is still yammering on about Lucas-parodies past, and how this one has to be better than 'Spaceballs'. He asks questions and never waits for answers. Kaleidoscope, Xander thinks. Why won't it stop turning?
While Andrew sets up the tape, he gulps down painkillers with a glass of water and realises he hasn't eaten since lunch. Better find something soon, or he'll end up paying for it.
He pulls off his shoes and leaves them by the door, then joins Andrew on the couch. Andrew doesn't complain when he snatches away the bag of Doritos and makes an eager start on its contents.
The headache is long gone by the time the movie ends. When he feels a guilty pang at the thought of bailing on Buffy and Willow, he consoles himself with a reminder that he's still helping, in a way. Andrew is here, relaxed and still giggling, instead of there, whining and getting underfoot. The guilt disappears.
"Steve Oederkerk is my god," Andrew breathes, and giggles some more. Xander can't help smiling. He watches Andrew get up and put the tape back in the box. The guy doesn't look like he's about to run anymore, or pout, or burst into tears. He seems happy. Xander made him happy. He wonders if that will make up for the bruises.
*****
tbc
"You know they'd have ripped you to pieces, right?"
Beside him, Andrew is entirely still, eyes closed and hands clasped tightly in his lap. Xander wonders if he's heard a single word. He's about to try again, when -
"I know." Andrew's voice is a whisper, of the 'I still can't believe I'm alive and don't want to jinx it' variety.
He wants to be mad. He wants to yell at Andrew for making Buffy mad, and for pissing off the potentials who certainly don't need anything else to worry about right now. He just doesn't know where to start. Andrew's probably spent the whole day cooking meals and dividing them into microwaveable portions, thinking it's a helpful, thoughtful thing to do. Which it probably is, Xander decides. It's just… they didn't ask for help. They're supposed to be strong and independent and all Amazon-like, and that means no help from men. Especially boys who get scared by raised voices and prefer wielding a spatula to a stake. That's not what Slayers do. Or it's not what potentials think Slayers should do. Not that he can explain any of that to Andrew.
"They're scared," he says instead. "They don't know what they're doing, they can't keep up with what's happening and they can't admit that to Buffy."
"But why does everyone take it out on me?" Xander hasn't heard that whine in a couple of days. It's not pleasant. In fact, it's kind of adding to his headache. Andrew folds his arms, and Xander's certain that if he were standing, he'd be stamping his foot too.
"Because you're the closest thing they've got to a real, physical bad guy right now." He's only guessing, but it sounds pretty plausible, so he decides to stick with the theory. The potentials can't fight the First, and they can't fight Buffy, so they go for the easiest options: fighting each other and Andrew.
"But I'm helping!" Andrew pouts, unfolds his arms, then folds them again out of sheer frustration. "I don't deserve this!"
"You're a hostage!" Xander's head is threatening to pop again, and the only thing stopping him from turning around and dropping Andrew on Buffy's front porch again is those damn hunted eyes that flash in his memory at the worst possible times. He has to know he's doing the right thing: has to know he can't let them cross the line.
"But I'm good now," Andrew continues, turning in his seat to face Xander. "I'm helping. I've abandoned the Obsidian Order and I'm decoding messages for Starfleet. What more do they want from me?"
He can't hold back a sigh. It's all he can do not to close his eyes, to try and shut out Andrew's pleading expression. Instead he fights to keep the car steady, pressing a little harder on the gas pedal.
"I know you're trying," he tells his passenger, who waits expectantly for his advice, "but they don't need a chef. We're talking about the end of the world here, Andrew, and you can't fight that with cookies."
They watch the road in silence. The wheels hum over the asphalt.
"Um, where are we going?" Andrew asks, after almost a whole minute's peace.
Xander sighs again.
"I've had a day and a half at work. I need to shut down. I want TV and carbohydrates and canned laughter." He tries to imagine himself stretched out on his couch with a beer and a bag of chips. Then wonders if he has any beer. Or chips. Or food of any kind that doesn't require any effort. He draws a blank. "I'm going home."
Which turns out to be an adventure by itself, because as Andrew chatters on about what's on TV, he spots the video store and decides instantly that a film will be much better than anything television has to offer tonight. Xander's in no mood to fight any more, and he allows himself to be led inside, where the fluorescent lights buzz like wasps and hurt the insides of his eyes.
They argue because Xander's already seen 'Spiderman' and doesn't think it stands up to repeat viewing. They argue about whether 'Freaked' is really science fiction or just gross-out comedy. Then they team up and argue with the clerk who thinks Alice Krige was a better villain than Ricardo Montalban. Xander thinks if it weren't for the headache, it might be the most fun he's ever had while fully clothed.
Not the arguing, which makes his head throb, and certainly not listening to Andrew's petulant whining, but being around somebody who gets it. Willow tries: she can tell the difference between Doctor Zimmerman and the EMH, and she agrees with Xander's theory that 'Space Precinct' was just a way of using up left-over alien suits, but she's not cut out for 'Outer Limits' marathons or discussions about subtext in 'Farscape'. Buffy doesn't pretend to care, and Dawn stopped thinking it was cool the moment she started crushing on Spike.
Xander finds himself wondering what it must have been like to hang out with Jonathan and Warren in Nerd Central. Before Warren went psycho, of course.
They eventually make it back to the apartment bearing Doritos and a copy of 'Thumb Wars: The Phantom Cuticle', which the clerk highly recommended. Xander's certain it was just to get them both out of his store, but Andrew seemed okay with it so he doesn't complain. Andrew is still yammering on about Lucas-parodies past, and how this one has to be better than 'Spaceballs'. He asks questions and never waits for answers. Kaleidoscope, Xander thinks. Why won't it stop turning?
While Andrew sets up the tape, he gulps down painkillers with a glass of water and realises he hasn't eaten since lunch. Better find something soon, or he'll end up paying for it.
He pulls off his shoes and leaves them by the door, then joins Andrew on the couch. Andrew doesn't complain when he snatches away the bag of Doritos and makes an eager start on its contents.
The headache is long gone by the time the movie ends. When he feels a guilty pang at the thought of bailing on Buffy and Willow, he consoles himself with a reminder that he's still helping, in a way. Andrew is here, relaxed and still giggling, instead of there, whining and getting underfoot. The guilt disappears.
"Steve Oederkerk is my god," Andrew breathes, and giggles some more. Xander can't help smiling. He watches Andrew get up and put the tape back in the box. The guy doesn't look like he's about to run anymore, or pout, or burst into tears. He seems happy. Xander made him happy. He wonders if that will make up for the bruises.
*****
tbc