Note: takes place between 'Normal Again' and 'Entropy'
Chapter eight
It was never entirely quiet in the Lair. Computers hummed tunelessly to themselves, miscellaneous electronic doodads clicked and whirred intermittently and now, since they'd drawn up a rota to ensure a twenty-four-hour watch, there was always at least one person up and about.
Presently, Warren was the one watching the surveillance monitors, and Andrew should have been asleep. He usually was: Jonathan often griped at him for being able to fall asleep so easily. Tonight though, the Valerian root on Jonathan's workstation explained why he was already snoring heavily in his sleeping bag while Andrew stared blankly at the ceiling. They'd been suggesting sleeping tablets for at least a week before the short-round had actually resorted to taking them. Now he slept for hours at a time, but still somehow looked like a zombie when he was awake. Not even a 'Return of the Living Dead' zombie either, but a 'Night of the Living Dead' one who stumbled around with no purpose or sentience.
It was getting kind of creepy. Andrew knew he was supposed to be distancing himself from Jonathan, in readiness for the day when they would ditch him like a greasy burger wrapper for the cops to clear away, but it wasn't easy. It reminded him of the goat in 'Jurassic Park', and sometimes he couldn't even bear to look at Jonathan because the knowledge of what was going to happen made him sick. He couldn't help but remember the Jonathan who'd stuck up for him when Tucker was being an asshole, and who'd carried on hanging out with him when Tucker had gone off to the fancy out-of-state college his folks had wished he'd applied to. That Jonathan had been fun: nothing like the whiny, neurotic little thing he'd become lately.
So mostly he ignored Jonathan, and when Andrew had to speak to him, he tried to remember the way Jonathan could snap and snarl and put him down, just like Tucker used to. It made it a little more painless. Angry-Jonathan would be easier to leave behind.
Besides, Warren had planned it, and that meant it would work. Warren decided things, and Warren fixed things, like he fixed the thing with that girl they'd tested the Cerebral Dampener on. Like he'd fixed Andrew when he'd had his panic attack after they'd gotten rid of... of it.
In his sleeping bag, eyes fixed on the damp patch on the ceiling that looked like a map of Australia, Andrew wondered if Warren could fix himself.
During the day, he was regular old Warren, quick with a joke and often caught shooting Andrew longing looks across the Lair when Jonathan wasn't paying attention. When the lights went out, though, it was like Warren was out too. If he was on watch, he'd stare at the monitors like he was hypnotised, like the Simpsons at the end of 'The Shinning', all work and no play makes Warren...something...something.
At first he'd wondered if Warren was just resting his mind after all that thinking, like maybe he just needed some downtime. But there was a coldness to his silence, something that warned Andrew against trying to interrupt it.
Warren hadn't budged in what seemed like ages. Not even to shift his weight from the elbow that leant on the desk where he sat. Suddenly Andrew was shot cold with the thought that maybe Warren had died there, some kind of heart attack from all the stress, perhaps. What could kill a man without him moving? Poison? Had Jonathan slipped some mystical potion-thing into his Dr Pepper? Maybe it was the Valerian root: maybe the treacherous little Ferengi had dosed him with maxi-strength Valerian root and put him to sleep for good.
He sat up immediately, his sleeping bag making a soft swish about an octave higher than the singing of the computers. Warren did not stir at the sound. Panic gripped Andrew's chest and squeezed him like a toothpaste tube until he could barely breathe. His skin prickled as he stood and stepped towards the bank of monitors that Warren was meant to be watching.
Warren still had not moved by the time Andrew was but a couple of paces away. His eyes were open, but all they showed was the unmoving blue-tinted reflection of the screens. Andrew resisted the temptation to reach out and touch him, in case Warren just keeled over and proved he really was dead.
Stung with a faint mixture of terror and embarrassment, he whispered, "Warren?" wanting to wake him but not disturb Jonathan. He counted in heartbeats as Warren did not respond, reaching fifteen before drawing breath to whisper again. Before he could, Warren blinked once, twice, three times, like he'd just been roused from sleep. He lifted his head, looked round drowsily as though trying to gauge his whereabouts. It was all a little anti-climactic, Andrew thought, as the tension that had stiffened his body dripped away like melted ice-cream, leaving him feeling sticky and uncomfortable.
Warren still stared, apparently waiting for an explanation.
"Are you okay?" Andrew asked, careful and just a teensy bit afraid. Warren could snap and snarl too, although unlike Jonathan he usually apologised afterwards. To Andrew, at least.
"Fine." Warren's dead-fish stare was spooky, and Andrew almost wanted to look away. But this was his Warren, and he couldn't help the desire to comfort, to find out what was wrong and make it go away. He couldn't fix things like Warren could, but he wanted to try.
So he went for the one thing he knew he was good at. Still wary, he deposited himself in his boyfriend's lap, one arm curved gently around Warren's shoulders. When Warren did not protest, Andrew pressed one careful kiss to his forehead.
"Things are bad, huh?" he pointed out, referring to the general mood of the Lair lately.
"They'll get better."
Andrew smiled gratefully, and Warren draped his arm over Andrew's thighs, holding him steady so he would not slip. All around them, gadgets and doohickies buzzed and whispered.
"Soon?" The tension was bothering all of them lately, clinging and oppressive like mid-summer heat, and Andrew wanted it gone. So he was pleased when Warren nodded his answer.
"Then we can get outta here," Warren explained. "You, me and more money than you could count."
"You and me," Andrew echoed, and the idea sounded wonderful, but he could not keep from glancing across at where Jonathan lay sleeping. Immediately Warren caught the reason for that glance and reached up to cup his chin with one hand, turning Andrew back to face him.
"He's not with us anymore." His voice was sharp, but regretful, and Andrew guessed that Warren felt as bad about it as he did. "He hasn't been for a long time," Warren continued. "He'd sell us out in a second if he could be sure the Slayer wouldn't kick his ass too."
This came as a genuine surprise to Andrew. They were supposed to be The Trio, a brotherhood, and turning one's back on a brother was the ultimate betrayal. Well, he'd turn his back on Tucker, but that was a different kind of brotherhood and didn't count. Warren was willing to kill for the Trio. Tucker wouldn't spit on them if they were on fire.
It made him sad, knowing now that it was just the two of them. But the more he thought about it, the more the idea seemed to hold a certain element of excitement. The two of them together, on a mission of unspeakable malevolence, bound by a love that the world would never accept.
"It's just you and me now," Warren repeated, as though he could read Andrew's mind.
"You and me against the world," he ventured, and Warren smiled at last, obviously pleased with that idea. Andrew grinned, and dipped his head for a kiss. Across the room, Jonathan kept snoring, oblivious.
~~~~~
tbc
Chapter eight
It was never entirely quiet in the Lair. Computers hummed tunelessly to themselves, miscellaneous electronic doodads clicked and whirred intermittently and now, since they'd drawn up a rota to ensure a twenty-four-hour watch, there was always at least one person up and about.
Presently, Warren was the one watching the surveillance monitors, and Andrew should have been asleep. He usually was: Jonathan often griped at him for being able to fall asleep so easily. Tonight though, the Valerian root on Jonathan's workstation explained why he was already snoring heavily in his sleeping bag while Andrew stared blankly at the ceiling. They'd been suggesting sleeping tablets for at least a week before the short-round had actually resorted to taking them. Now he slept for hours at a time, but still somehow looked like a zombie when he was awake. Not even a 'Return of the Living Dead' zombie either, but a 'Night of the Living Dead' one who stumbled around with no purpose or sentience.
It was getting kind of creepy. Andrew knew he was supposed to be distancing himself from Jonathan, in readiness for the day when they would ditch him like a greasy burger wrapper for the cops to clear away, but it wasn't easy. It reminded him of the goat in 'Jurassic Park', and sometimes he couldn't even bear to look at Jonathan because the knowledge of what was going to happen made him sick. He couldn't help but remember the Jonathan who'd stuck up for him when Tucker was being an asshole, and who'd carried on hanging out with him when Tucker had gone off to the fancy out-of-state college his folks had wished he'd applied to. That Jonathan had been fun: nothing like the whiny, neurotic little thing he'd become lately.
So mostly he ignored Jonathan, and when Andrew had to speak to him, he tried to remember the way Jonathan could snap and snarl and put him down, just like Tucker used to. It made it a little more painless. Angry-Jonathan would be easier to leave behind.
Besides, Warren had planned it, and that meant it would work. Warren decided things, and Warren fixed things, like he fixed the thing with that girl they'd tested the Cerebral Dampener on. Like he'd fixed Andrew when he'd had his panic attack after they'd gotten rid of... of it.
In his sleeping bag, eyes fixed on the damp patch on the ceiling that looked like a map of Australia, Andrew wondered if Warren could fix himself.
During the day, he was regular old Warren, quick with a joke and often caught shooting Andrew longing looks across the Lair when Jonathan wasn't paying attention. When the lights went out, though, it was like Warren was out too. If he was on watch, he'd stare at the monitors like he was hypnotised, like the Simpsons at the end of 'The Shinning', all work and no play makes Warren...something...something.
At first he'd wondered if Warren was just resting his mind after all that thinking, like maybe he just needed some downtime. But there was a coldness to his silence, something that warned Andrew against trying to interrupt it.
Warren hadn't budged in what seemed like ages. Not even to shift his weight from the elbow that leant on the desk where he sat. Suddenly Andrew was shot cold with the thought that maybe Warren had died there, some kind of heart attack from all the stress, perhaps. What could kill a man without him moving? Poison? Had Jonathan slipped some mystical potion-thing into his Dr Pepper? Maybe it was the Valerian root: maybe the treacherous little Ferengi had dosed him with maxi-strength Valerian root and put him to sleep for good.
He sat up immediately, his sleeping bag making a soft swish about an octave higher than the singing of the computers. Warren did not stir at the sound. Panic gripped Andrew's chest and squeezed him like a toothpaste tube until he could barely breathe. His skin prickled as he stood and stepped towards the bank of monitors that Warren was meant to be watching.
Warren still had not moved by the time Andrew was but a couple of paces away. His eyes were open, but all they showed was the unmoving blue-tinted reflection of the screens. Andrew resisted the temptation to reach out and touch him, in case Warren just keeled over and proved he really was dead.
Stung with a faint mixture of terror and embarrassment, he whispered, "Warren?" wanting to wake him but not disturb Jonathan. He counted in heartbeats as Warren did not respond, reaching fifteen before drawing breath to whisper again. Before he could, Warren blinked once, twice, three times, like he'd just been roused from sleep. He lifted his head, looked round drowsily as though trying to gauge his whereabouts. It was all a little anti-climactic, Andrew thought, as the tension that had stiffened his body dripped away like melted ice-cream, leaving him feeling sticky and uncomfortable.
Warren still stared, apparently waiting for an explanation.
"Are you okay?" Andrew asked, careful and just a teensy bit afraid. Warren could snap and snarl too, although unlike Jonathan he usually apologised afterwards. To Andrew, at least.
"Fine." Warren's dead-fish stare was spooky, and Andrew almost wanted to look away. But this was his Warren, and he couldn't help the desire to comfort, to find out what was wrong and make it go away. He couldn't fix things like Warren could, but he wanted to try.
So he went for the one thing he knew he was good at. Still wary, he deposited himself in his boyfriend's lap, one arm curved gently around Warren's shoulders. When Warren did not protest, Andrew pressed one careful kiss to his forehead.
"Things are bad, huh?" he pointed out, referring to the general mood of the Lair lately.
"They'll get better."
Andrew smiled gratefully, and Warren draped his arm over Andrew's thighs, holding him steady so he would not slip. All around them, gadgets and doohickies buzzed and whispered.
"Soon?" The tension was bothering all of them lately, clinging and oppressive like mid-summer heat, and Andrew wanted it gone. So he was pleased when Warren nodded his answer.
"Then we can get outta here," Warren explained. "You, me and more money than you could count."
"You and me," Andrew echoed, and the idea sounded wonderful, but he could not keep from glancing across at where Jonathan lay sleeping. Immediately Warren caught the reason for that glance and reached up to cup his chin with one hand, turning Andrew back to face him.
"He's not with us anymore." His voice was sharp, but regretful, and Andrew guessed that Warren felt as bad about it as he did. "He hasn't been for a long time," Warren continued. "He'd sell us out in a second if he could be sure the Slayer wouldn't kick his ass too."
This came as a genuine surprise to Andrew. They were supposed to be The Trio, a brotherhood, and turning one's back on a brother was the ultimate betrayal. Well, he'd turn his back on Tucker, but that was a different kind of brotherhood and didn't count. Warren was willing to kill for the Trio. Tucker wouldn't spit on them if they were on fire.
It made him sad, knowing now that it was just the two of them. But the more he thought about it, the more the idea seemed to hold a certain element of excitement. The two of them together, on a mission of unspeakable malevolence, bound by a love that the world would never accept.
"It's just you and me now," Warren repeated, as though he could read Andrew's mind.
"You and me against the world," he ventured, and Warren smiled at last, obviously pleased with that idea. Andrew grinned, and dipped his head for a kiss. Across the room, Jonathan kept snoring, oblivious.
~~~~~
tbc