Title: Every Morning Comes: Part One
Author: Flannery
Rating: R
Summary: Not only does Andrew have to adjust to a new life, but he has to deal with the past coming back to haunt him.
Author's Notes: Spoilers for the ends of Buffy seasons six and seven, and I think there's a mention of a season two Angel episode. I didn't create these guys. I'm just using them, but they belong to Joss. So not profiting from this, either. Big thanks to everyone that's encouraged me! *snuggles her LJ friends*
* * *
The camera switched on, and Andrew's solemn face appeared. For a moment, the picture shook, as Andrew's hands were shaking, but once he set it on the bed, the image stilled.
His eyes fixed forward. "I'm not scared." A shiver in Andrew's voice betrayed him. "I don't know why, but... I'm not."
His pale face occupied the film for several seconds, unaccompanied by narration. He looked sullen, withdrawn. Lost. He regrouped and continued.
"He's been..." Andrew's eyes shut, then reopened with new focus. "This is just going to sound crazy, I -- I know. But Warren -- " He wetted his lips. " -- he's been around recently. My Warren. I mean -- not, not *my* Warren." Eyes darkened. "He's not my Warren any longer. He's... look. I'm not crazy. And -- and I'm not dreaming or imagining stuff."
A fantastical expression crossed Andrew's face. "I've seen him. It hurts to look right at him, like -- like looking at the sun -- " He paused. "No, not like that at all. It's like, like if you stare at one star for a long time, trying to watch it twinkle. And -- and your eyes start feeling strained and tired. Only with Warren, that happens after just a few seconds."
"He's come to my room at night," he said, taking his time with each word in order to speak steadily. Silence descended again -- a heavy silence that even seemed to weigh on the young man in the tape. "Warren... I -- I don't think he means me any harm. 'Cause I've read a lot of ghost stories and he isn't like a, a poltergeist, or something mean. Which is strange, 'cause I'd think of all of us, Warren would've been the one hurling lamps across the room and, and killing priests..."
Andrew sighed deeply. He rubbed his insomnia-darkened eyes.
The final line was delivered in a quivering tone. "I think -- I think he's in pain."
The screen went black.
* * *
It was September, and an ocean breeze blew from the West. Andrew's window opened to the East, but he slept with it open to catch what he could of the wind.
Hotel rooms once held a magic for Andrew. They were symbolic of fun family vacations, an oasis of soft bed and cool air to which to return after a long day spent at a theme park or natural wonder. That wasn't to say they didn't feel magical now he was older; there was magic, sure, but it seemed a dark, sucking magic rather than pixiedust and free HBO.
The Hyperion was full of empty rooms and guarded by more spells and wards than Andrew knew, and was still as black and chilling as any other lonely structure. He was sleeping in borrowed space, wrapped in alien sheets, and truly, Andrew had felt alone.
Thus his guard had been up, the first nights of his stay. A week after the destruction of Sunnydale, his room had taken on a more lived-in appearance and had lost much of its foreign feel. He'd stuck some pictures on the walls, cut from magazines, and had clothes and books strewn about the room, all in a rather forced effort to make it His. Still, it remained a hotel room, and no amount of time or clutter was going to change that.
Andrew awoke to the room flooded with California sunshine and an unlikely birdsong from the outside. From the moment he drifted to consciousness, he became aware of a slight heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Andrew felt anxious, nervous, excited -- he wasn't sure which, and he couldn't figure the root of the feeling. Perhaps a remnant of a dream; something important in slumber, forgotten with sunrise...
That had happened every morning for three days now, and Andrew had yet to notice anything come of the feeling. Instead of blaming intuition, he now suspected it could be a side effect of the protection magics hovering in the air.
"It's this insistent throb," he told Wesley, "like the mixing of Pop Rocks and 7-Up. And it won't go away, and... and I think it's getting worse."
"Well, Andrew..." Wesley frowned, thinking. "This building was once inhabited by a demon that fed into and fed off of paranoia for more than half a century. It could simply be that you've tapped into something leftover after its demise. You're welcome to change rooms if you'd like."
Andrew shook his head. "No. No, I -- I think I'll stay in mine." He thanked Wesley for the help -- Andrew always remembered to thank the others for their time.
And Fred had suggested, "It could be some sort of residual, unconscious stress over watching a friend die." She had such a genuine smile. Andrew loved being around her, usually, but he felt uncomfortable as she continued: "Then, completely losing your home, and being forced to settle in a strange new place with a bunch of people you hardly know..."
Andrew just sighed and abandoned the subject.
Nobody believed him when he said he felt fine. For Andrew, stress hadn't been a problem. After tragedy upon tragedy had left his life in tatters, he felt happier and more fulfilled than ever before. He felt appreciated here, and had actual friends; it felt like Sunnydale was a lifetime away, like it was the twisted Oz reflection of his normal Kansas life.
This Monday morning was unseasonably brisk. Snatching an oversized Ghostbusters sweatshirt from the floor, Andrew pulled it over his head and snuggled into the soft fabric.
Further introspection would wait for another time, because breakfast called. The others would be waking in a few hours. He wanted to have all the bowls and cereal out on the counter before the kitchen swelled with starving Slayers and Scoobies. Andrew reasoned that if he made himself useful, then perhaps Angel would want to keep him around a bit longer. It just wouldn't be right to leave so quickly after finally finding his place in the world.
* * *
Looking back on that day, Andrew would be able to recall the most surprising details. He had a conversation with Xander about dating shows; Kennedy cut her hair short and complained about the salon prices; he fantasized briefly about kissing Fred, before putting a firm and sudden end to the thought; Dawn wore a lovely floral sundress that floated around her legs as she walked; Lorne was miffed that nobody taped CSI Miami for him. When he looked back, the day passed in a blur, with certain moments playing out in cinematic slow motion.
Considering this was the night of the first visit from Warren, it was strange that unimportant conversations and the like would stand out more boldly than that event.
Years after that night, Andrew recalled only what he'd committed to tape.
* * *
The autumn breeze was dead, effectively smothered by the heavy Los Angeles atmosphere. The window was shut and locked. Tonight, Andrew hadn't felt comfortable leaving it open. He did leave the curtains parted, for he was especially eager to catch the first rays of morning sunlight. Sunshine burnt away nightmares: the first lesson learned by a child of Sunnydale.
He was surrounded by darkness -- and not the calm, comfortable kind of darkness, but an apocalyptic darkness lit dimly by a dead orange glow from the LA streets outside.
He'd stared through the window, trying to find Orion's belt in the sky. Orion was lost behind the skyward-glare of obscene city lights.
It was 3:15 in the morning. Andrew suddenly wasn't sleeping.
In fact, he was at full consciousness, as though he'd never been asleep at all. That nagging nervousness in his gut was back and had grown to a strong, persistent thrum. Andrew felt parched for air and sucked it down like he'd been underwater.
This room that'd never felt like home felt even less so, tonight. Something about the space itself was off, in a grotesque way; it was closing in on Andrew and his skin was screaming at him to leave. He rolled over in bed and tried to fall back to sleep, but his eyes refused to shut against the potential, though insubstantial, threat.
Then:
"Hi," said Warren.
Andrew lurched inside his flesh. Terror assailed him, but also a sort of relief: he'd woken a number of times with Warren seated on the bed next to him, both before and after Warren's death.
Instead of a scream, instead of panic, he shut his eyes against the apparition. He screwed them shut with all his will and tried to chant away the specter with the few incantations he recalled and one or two that he made up on the spot.
"Go away," he snapped when he ran out of chants. "Just... go away!"
When he opened his eyes again, Andrew was alone.
His heart raced in the dark and everything was too, too warm all of a sudden and he couldn't swallow enough air.
The heat, the dizziness, the aches -- It's a fever. He must be getting sick. Imagining things in his half-sleep.
The heavy thumping of his heart began to distract him. He wondered if he'd expire of a heart attack, right there in the bed. Andrew pulled the blankets over his face, burying himself in the folds of the bed. "It wasn't... He wasn't really there," Andrew told himself aloud, his small voice muffled by the covers. "Calm down. Calm *down*. Calm... Calm down."
That wasn't real, thought Andrew, and this time he almost believed it. The First was banished. And this apparition, he realized in reflection, was wholly unlike the First. It'd been like a negative image of Warren, like a shadow against the dark.
The room was still empty when Andrew slid the blankets from his face.
*Reversed shadow* was the description that came to mind. Wouldn't a reversed shadow be light? No, he answered himself: like the shadow that a shadow casts.
Not wanting to close his eyes, he stared out the window at the nuclear-stained sky.
Soon, exhaustion made it easier to disbelieve.
The trick of a fever. The remnant of a dream.
It was enough. There were several non-threatening explanations available, and that satisfied him. Still coccooned by layers of blankets, Andrew fell into sleep.
He dreamed of shadows.
* * *
Author: Flannery
Rating: R
Summary: Not only does Andrew have to adjust to a new life, but he has to deal with the past coming back to haunt him.
Author's Notes: Spoilers for the ends of Buffy seasons six and seven, and I think there's a mention of a season two Angel episode. I didn't create these guys. I'm just using them, but they belong to Joss. So not profiting from this, either. Big thanks to everyone that's encouraged me! *snuggles her LJ friends*
* * *
The camera switched on, and Andrew's solemn face appeared. For a moment, the picture shook, as Andrew's hands were shaking, but once he set it on the bed, the image stilled.
His eyes fixed forward. "I'm not scared." A shiver in Andrew's voice betrayed him. "I don't know why, but... I'm not."
His pale face occupied the film for several seconds, unaccompanied by narration. He looked sullen, withdrawn. Lost. He regrouped and continued.
"He's been..." Andrew's eyes shut, then reopened with new focus. "This is just going to sound crazy, I -- I know. But Warren -- " He wetted his lips. " -- he's been around recently. My Warren. I mean -- not, not *my* Warren." Eyes darkened. "He's not my Warren any longer. He's... look. I'm not crazy. And -- and I'm not dreaming or imagining stuff."
A fantastical expression crossed Andrew's face. "I've seen him. It hurts to look right at him, like -- like looking at the sun -- " He paused. "No, not like that at all. It's like, like if you stare at one star for a long time, trying to watch it twinkle. And -- and your eyes start feeling strained and tired. Only with Warren, that happens after just a few seconds."
"He's come to my room at night," he said, taking his time with each word in order to speak steadily. Silence descended again -- a heavy silence that even seemed to weigh on the young man in the tape. "Warren... I -- I don't think he means me any harm. 'Cause I've read a lot of ghost stories and he isn't like a, a poltergeist, or something mean. Which is strange, 'cause I'd think of all of us, Warren would've been the one hurling lamps across the room and, and killing priests..."
Andrew sighed deeply. He rubbed his insomnia-darkened eyes.
The final line was delivered in a quivering tone. "I think -- I think he's in pain."
The screen went black.
* * *
It was September, and an ocean breeze blew from the West. Andrew's window opened to the East, but he slept with it open to catch what he could of the wind.
Hotel rooms once held a magic for Andrew. They were symbolic of fun family vacations, an oasis of soft bed and cool air to which to return after a long day spent at a theme park or natural wonder. That wasn't to say they didn't feel magical now he was older; there was magic, sure, but it seemed a dark, sucking magic rather than pixiedust and free HBO.
The Hyperion was full of empty rooms and guarded by more spells and wards than Andrew knew, and was still as black and chilling as any other lonely structure. He was sleeping in borrowed space, wrapped in alien sheets, and truly, Andrew had felt alone.
Thus his guard had been up, the first nights of his stay. A week after the destruction of Sunnydale, his room had taken on a more lived-in appearance and had lost much of its foreign feel. He'd stuck some pictures on the walls, cut from magazines, and had clothes and books strewn about the room, all in a rather forced effort to make it His. Still, it remained a hotel room, and no amount of time or clutter was going to change that.
Andrew awoke to the room flooded with California sunshine and an unlikely birdsong from the outside. From the moment he drifted to consciousness, he became aware of a slight heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Andrew felt anxious, nervous, excited -- he wasn't sure which, and he couldn't figure the root of the feeling. Perhaps a remnant of a dream; something important in slumber, forgotten with sunrise...
That had happened every morning for three days now, and Andrew had yet to notice anything come of the feeling. Instead of blaming intuition, he now suspected it could be a side effect of the protection magics hovering in the air.
"It's this insistent throb," he told Wesley, "like the mixing of Pop Rocks and 7-Up. And it won't go away, and... and I think it's getting worse."
"Well, Andrew..." Wesley frowned, thinking. "This building was once inhabited by a demon that fed into and fed off of paranoia for more than half a century. It could simply be that you've tapped into something leftover after its demise. You're welcome to change rooms if you'd like."
Andrew shook his head. "No. No, I -- I think I'll stay in mine." He thanked Wesley for the help -- Andrew always remembered to thank the others for their time.
And Fred had suggested, "It could be some sort of residual, unconscious stress over watching a friend die." She had such a genuine smile. Andrew loved being around her, usually, but he felt uncomfortable as she continued: "Then, completely losing your home, and being forced to settle in a strange new place with a bunch of people you hardly know..."
Andrew just sighed and abandoned the subject.
Nobody believed him when he said he felt fine. For Andrew, stress hadn't been a problem. After tragedy upon tragedy had left his life in tatters, he felt happier and more fulfilled than ever before. He felt appreciated here, and had actual friends; it felt like Sunnydale was a lifetime away, like it was the twisted Oz reflection of his normal Kansas life.
This Monday morning was unseasonably brisk. Snatching an oversized Ghostbusters sweatshirt from the floor, Andrew pulled it over his head and snuggled into the soft fabric.
Further introspection would wait for another time, because breakfast called. The others would be waking in a few hours. He wanted to have all the bowls and cereal out on the counter before the kitchen swelled with starving Slayers and Scoobies. Andrew reasoned that if he made himself useful, then perhaps Angel would want to keep him around a bit longer. It just wouldn't be right to leave so quickly after finally finding his place in the world.
* * *
Looking back on that day, Andrew would be able to recall the most surprising details. He had a conversation with Xander about dating shows; Kennedy cut her hair short and complained about the salon prices; he fantasized briefly about kissing Fred, before putting a firm and sudden end to the thought; Dawn wore a lovely floral sundress that floated around her legs as she walked; Lorne was miffed that nobody taped CSI Miami for him. When he looked back, the day passed in a blur, with certain moments playing out in cinematic slow motion.
Considering this was the night of the first visit from Warren, it was strange that unimportant conversations and the like would stand out more boldly than that event.
Years after that night, Andrew recalled only what he'd committed to tape.
* * *
The autumn breeze was dead, effectively smothered by the heavy Los Angeles atmosphere. The window was shut and locked. Tonight, Andrew hadn't felt comfortable leaving it open. He did leave the curtains parted, for he was especially eager to catch the first rays of morning sunlight. Sunshine burnt away nightmares: the first lesson learned by a child of Sunnydale.
He was surrounded by darkness -- and not the calm, comfortable kind of darkness, but an apocalyptic darkness lit dimly by a dead orange glow from the LA streets outside.
He'd stared through the window, trying to find Orion's belt in the sky. Orion was lost behind the skyward-glare of obscene city lights.
It was 3:15 in the morning. Andrew suddenly wasn't sleeping.
In fact, he was at full consciousness, as though he'd never been asleep at all. That nagging nervousness in his gut was back and had grown to a strong, persistent thrum. Andrew felt parched for air and sucked it down like he'd been underwater.
This room that'd never felt like home felt even less so, tonight. Something about the space itself was off, in a grotesque way; it was closing in on Andrew and his skin was screaming at him to leave. He rolled over in bed and tried to fall back to sleep, but his eyes refused to shut against the potential, though insubstantial, threat.
Then:
"Hi," said Warren.
Andrew lurched inside his flesh. Terror assailed him, but also a sort of relief: he'd woken a number of times with Warren seated on the bed next to him, both before and after Warren's death.
Instead of a scream, instead of panic, he shut his eyes against the apparition. He screwed them shut with all his will and tried to chant away the specter with the few incantations he recalled and one or two that he made up on the spot.
"Go away," he snapped when he ran out of chants. "Just... go away!"
When he opened his eyes again, Andrew was alone.
His heart raced in the dark and everything was too, too warm all of a sudden and he couldn't swallow enough air.
The heat, the dizziness, the aches -- It's a fever. He must be getting sick. Imagining things in his half-sleep.
The heavy thumping of his heart began to distract him. He wondered if he'd expire of a heart attack, right there in the bed. Andrew pulled the blankets over his face, burying himself in the folds of the bed. "It wasn't... He wasn't really there," Andrew told himself aloud, his small voice muffled by the covers. "Calm down. Calm *down*. Calm... Calm down."
That wasn't real, thought Andrew, and this time he almost believed it. The First was banished. And this apparition, he realized in reflection, was wholly unlike the First. It'd been like a negative image of Warren, like a shadow against the dark.
The room was still empty when Andrew slid the blankets from his face.
*Reversed shadow* was the description that came to mind. Wouldn't a reversed shadow be light? No, he answered himself: like the shadow that a shadow casts.
Not wanting to close his eyes, he stared out the window at the nuclear-stained sky.
Soon, exhaustion made it easier to disbelieve.
The trick of a fever. The remnant of a dream.
It was enough. There were several non-threatening explanations available, and that satisfied him. Still coccooned by layers of blankets, Andrew fell into sleep.
He dreamed of shadows.
* * *