Title: Every Morning Comes: Part Two
Author: Flannery
Rating: R
Summary: Not only does Andrew have to adjust to a new life, but also he has to deal with the past coming back to haunt him.
Distribution: FCFM, Down with the Sickness... anyone else want it? Just let me know.
Feedback: Yes! Do I have to grovel?
Author's Notes: Spoilers for the end of Buffy seasons six and seven. Joss created everyone I've used here, except for mini-wheats, and no profit is being made from their abuse -- I mean use. Thanks so much to the wonderful Alice for the beta!
* * *
Vi absently shoveled a spoonful of mini-wheats into her mouth. She chewed, slowly, staring at a blank spot on the wall.
"Hey sunshine, perk up." Andrew patted her shoulder.
Still chewing cereal, she forced a closed-mouth smile.
It was after ten now. Much of the hotel's residents were in bed still. It was peculiar: usually, only Angel, Buffy and Lorne snoozed the day away, while the refugees from Sunnydale rose early and devoured everything edible in their path.
Vi swallowed her mini-wheats. "Had a nightmare," she said quietly. "You know, one of those that stick with you? I can't get it out of my mind."
Andrew frowned. "That's not good. What was it about?"
"There was this mad gunman," she replied. "And -- I ran, or tried to run, but was shot in the belly." She placed her hand on her lower stomach. "He aimed to shoot me in the face, but I turned my head. I was shot in the neck instead."
Andrew wrinkled his nose and looked sympathetically at her. "Ow. That's rough, sweetie."
"It seemed I bled to death for hours." She gave a deep sigh, then replaced it with a smile. "You don't have the look of the well rested either." Vi prodded her cereal with the spoon, then, distracted, turned her head to the staircase. "Hey Dawn," she said, waving a greeting with her spoon.
Dawn waved and stated, "Andrew, your jumpiness is spreading to the rest of us."
"I get blamed for everything," whined Andrew.
Dawn ruffled his hair as she walked into the kitchen."I slept like shit," she grumbled, slumping over the countertop like a dead octopus.
"Nightmare?" Asked Vi.
Dawn's head, pressed against the Formica, moved in a gesture that might've been a nod. "Sucked. I watched Buffy get burnt alive." She paused thoughtfully. "There were marbles of some sort," she added.
"Yick." Vi gazed into the milk of her cereal bowl. "Though I guess I prefer bad dreams to living nightmares," she mused.
Andrew sighed.
"You're way too quiet," Dawn told him.
"Yeah. I was just thinking."
Dawn gave a mock gasp. "Will wonders never cease?"
Vi tossed a soggy mini-wheat at her and said to Andrew, "Enlighten us, Yoda."
"I was just thinking..." Andrew forced the shadows from his mind. "That our sorrows should be drowned in Venti Frappuccinos."
"Ooh." Dawn grinned, seeming to come alive. "That is a fantastic idea."
Vi gave Andrew's arm a friendly squeeze. "How'd you get so smart?"
"It'll be a girls' day out!" Dawn lit up excitedly.
He felt he should protest in defense of his manhood, but Andrew was feeling warm over being included in their group. What came out instead was, "and we can hit up that kiosk with those cute vintage tees at the street market!"
The girls exchanged a look, communicating that this was indeed a wonderful idea. Dawn said, "We should stop by the mall, too."
Andrew stole one mushy mini-wheat from Vi's bowl. "We should?"
"I don't want to go to the mall." Vi smacked Andrew's hand away from her food. "It'll be mad busy today."
"But the shirt!" Dawn raised her eyebrows. She was attempting, it appeared, to psychically convey something to Vi.
It seemed to work. "Oh, that!" She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "We blew off training the other day and went out to the mall. Dawn and I saw this great shirt at Hot Topic. That totally reminded us of you." Vi grinned at Andrew. "Had, um... Fraggles, or something equally adorkable on it. Very Andrew."
Andrew giggled. "Aw. You two are the best." His insides were warm and fuzzy like an electric blanket. He'd never felt so good with his old friends. His dead friends, he corrected himself, and thought perhaps he shouldn't be thinking ill thoughts of them.
He fell silent. It was taking every last fiber of him to suppress the familiar surge of guilt. Andrew forced a smile, not wanting to concern the girls. This was how he now lived.
* * *
"I have decided," the young man on the video stated, "that I won't be repeating how I'm not crazy anymore. It's one of those things, like, the more you repeat it? The crazier you sound. And when you think about it, if you're watching this tape, then you've probably had some Hellmouth-or-otherwise-induced craziness in your life. The more I learn about the people here, the more unbelievable their stories get..."
* * *
"Today was nice."
He wasn't talking to anyone -- or maybe he was, but would deny it if heard by living ears -- and his voice seemed much too loud in the empty room.
"I went out with Dawn and Vi." Andrew sat down on the bed and untied his shoes. "We went to Starbucks. I know we should patronize, like, Coffee Bean or some small place but Starbucks is just so close and no one can do a frosty caramel frappuccino like they do."
He stopped, feeling stupid as his words bounced off the silent walls.
"Um." He glanced around himself. "Warren?" The word was whispered, and Andrew was both hopeful and fearful that he'd receive an answer.
But there wasn't any. Not a flicker of light, not even that nervous feeling he'd grown accustomed to. It was unreasonable to feel disappointed, but he couldn't help it.
Andrew kicked his shoes off, onto the messy floor, then wriggled out of his shirt.
He kept the lamp switched on that night, and didn't fall asleep until well after midnight. Just like he would've denied speaking to the stagnant air of the room, Andrew would also have denied that he'd tried to keep himself from drifting to sleep until he absolutely couldn't keep his eyes from closing.
* * *
What he dreamed didn't matter. Andrew was shot through with an orgasmic buzz and he writhed with the feeling in pleasure that approached agony.
The second wave caused Andrew to cry out. This is what woke him.
Electric fingers trailed down his hip, skating over the thin cotton of his striped pajamas. Andrew tensed up, suppressing the fear he felt, and choked out, "Hey."
Warren looked up, all huge eyes rimmed in black lashes and translucent skin. "I didn't mean to wake you," he said, his voice tinged with guilt.
Andrew looked down at the bunched-up blanket he'd kicked off during the night. It was warm. The window was closed. There was no breeze, just still September air hanging dead both outside and between the walls.
"Is this a dream?" It felt foolish having to ask. Andrew fixed his gaze on Warren's pale hand resting on the mattress.
Warren's fingers were statue-still, but seemed to be wavering against the solid reality of the bed. "Do you want it to be?" Warren asked.
Andrew couldn't answer. Literally couldn't. His voice seemed trapped below his throat, his throat seemed to be vibrating inside his skin, his tongue had become fastened to the base of his mouth, his jaw refused to open and his brain refused to supply an answer to the question.
He -- Warren -- sat cold and blurry toward the end of the bed, on the opposite side of the mattress. A thousand thoughts bred and split like amoebas inside Andrew's mind. He wondered if he should try banishing this apparition as he had before. He wondered if he appeared as alien and out-of-focus to Warren as Warren did to him.
This specter looked different from Warren the same way a reflection differs from the reflected: it lacked humanity, a spark of life, just a cold artist's rendering of a person's form. Andrew found himself feeling very fleshy and pink next to the apparition. It made him self-conscious.
"Andrew." It spoke with Warren's voice, and it quivered, a hollow shadow of human speech. Warren lifted his eyes to Andrew and stared imploringly. His eyes weren't the same eyes that'd once watched hours of Doctor Who in the basement with Andrew; they were black but shimmered like a cat's eyes, like they could see directly into Andrew's head and burn out all the wicked thoughts.
This wasn't the First, Andrew was certain. This was a whole other entity.
"I don't want you to be uncomfortable," the shade told him. "Are you... are you uncomfortable?"
Andrew's mouth moved, but no words came out. After a moment, he choked out, "Stay."
Against the mattress, the spectral hand twitched as if it would reach over and touch Andrew, but Warren clutched his hands tightly in his lap to prevent such a move. "One of the good guys now," commented Warren, conversationally, with a small smile.
"Yeah," confirmed Andrew. "I've worked hard... to -- to redeem myself."
Spirit eyes ate him up. "You look good."
It'd been so, so long, and those words from Warren still made him feel amazing. Andrew felt his skin flush with warmth. "Thanks," he replied. A smile cracked his face. "And you look amazing, like -- like an angel, or something. Only... no wings."
"Also..." Warren ran a hand over his eternally mussed hair. "No halo."
Andrew snorted.
Looking indignant, Warren swatted playfully at him. "An angel... honestly, Andrew, you're so..." Softness crossed his face. His gaze was suddenly deeply affectionate. "I've wanted to see you again for the longest time."
"Have you?"
"Did you forget my face, Andrew?"
It was a peculiar question, and startled Andrew. Frowning, he shook his head. "No. No... Why would I do that?"
"Because I almost forgot it," answered Warren. "But I never forgot yours."
"Oh."
Moonlight eyes bored into Andrew's. "I followed you here."
"Yeah." His gaze dropped again to the white hands, now wringing together in Warren's lap. "I figured." Andrew stirred; he had the feeling those eyes were touching him in places they didn't belong. "I mean... how else would you wind up in LA, right?"
Warren exhaled an icy, jagged breath. It made Andrew jump; he wondered if Warren had been breathing this entire time and he'd only now noticed, and why something dead and spectral would do so in the first place. It seemed a charge had gone through the air and Andrew had started feeling distinctly uneasy.
"I could feel you."
Andrew tightly gripped the blankets until the knuckles turned white as the skin of Warren's hand.
Was he imagining it, or was Warren's face melting?
"I could sense you, and I followed, all this way, through the -- the -- ether, whatever..."
The voice, too, was melting, until it had become a series of mind-piercing noises that might have been words. Andrew bit the inside of his lip and tried to keep calm. Warren wouldn't hurt you, he told himself, however foolishly, and you've been through worse than a little haunting.
"I love you." Those iridescent eyes hovered in the same place they'd been, but the rest of the face had gone soft at the edges. The longer he looked, the features seemed to collapse in on themselves, shift in subtle turns, and Andrew wasn't certain if it was the skin that rippled or if, perhaps, something in his mortal eyes just couldn't process that at which he stared.
"Andrew -- " He blinked, rapidly, trying to clear the image before him. Warren's face was still a smudge in the dark. " -- I love -- "
Warren hesitated. He might have noticed Andrew's increasing disquiet. "I should go," he said.
"Will you come back?"
"Nothing's going to keep me away." His smile was a smear on the watercolor mess of a face.
Andrew watched the form dissipate before him until it was a cloud of boy-shaped mist. He found himself reminded of the death of the T-1000 from Terminator 2. Then, like lightning, Warren's arm shot out and grasped Andrew's knee. "You'll never be alone now," the wisp told him.
"No," breathed Andrew, startled, "I -- I won't."
That sounded anything but reassuring. He trembled; his knee buzzed from the contact.
The collective shimmer was gone, with Warren's bright shining eyes the last to vanish. He could almost see them, still, like spots burnt onto the dark -- ghosts of a ghost.
Andrew sat alone in the dark for several minutes before the bedside lamp flickered back on.
* * *
The previous noon, seated around a sun-dappled table outside Starbucks, he was asked, "What are your nightmares about, Andrew?"
Andrew blinked across the table at Dawn. "In the worst ones," he answered, "Jonathan never died, Warren's still alive, and I got everything I'd once wanted."
* * *
Author: Flannery
Rating: R
Summary: Not only does Andrew have to adjust to a new life, but also he has to deal with the past coming back to haunt him.
Distribution: FCFM, Down with the Sickness... anyone else want it? Just let me know.
Feedback: Yes! Do I have to grovel?
Author's Notes: Spoilers for the end of Buffy seasons six and seven. Joss created everyone I've used here, except for mini-wheats, and no profit is being made from their abuse -- I mean use. Thanks so much to the wonderful Alice for the beta!
* * *
Vi absently shoveled a spoonful of mini-wheats into her mouth. She chewed, slowly, staring at a blank spot on the wall.
"Hey sunshine, perk up." Andrew patted her shoulder.
Still chewing cereal, she forced a closed-mouth smile.
It was after ten now. Much of the hotel's residents were in bed still. It was peculiar: usually, only Angel, Buffy and Lorne snoozed the day away, while the refugees from Sunnydale rose early and devoured everything edible in their path.
Vi swallowed her mini-wheats. "Had a nightmare," she said quietly. "You know, one of those that stick with you? I can't get it out of my mind."
Andrew frowned. "That's not good. What was it about?"
"There was this mad gunman," she replied. "And -- I ran, or tried to run, but was shot in the belly." She placed her hand on her lower stomach. "He aimed to shoot me in the face, but I turned my head. I was shot in the neck instead."
Andrew wrinkled his nose and looked sympathetically at her. "Ow. That's rough, sweetie."
"It seemed I bled to death for hours." She gave a deep sigh, then replaced it with a smile. "You don't have the look of the well rested either." Vi prodded her cereal with the spoon, then, distracted, turned her head to the staircase. "Hey Dawn," she said, waving a greeting with her spoon.
Dawn waved and stated, "Andrew, your jumpiness is spreading to the rest of us."
"I get blamed for everything," whined Andrew.
Dawn ruffled his hair as she walked into the kitchen."I slept like shit," she grumbled, slumping over the countertop like a dead octopus.
"Nightmare?" Asked Vi.
Dawn's head, pressed against the Formica, moved in a gesture that might've been a nod. "Sucked. I watched Buffy get burnt alive." She paused thoughtfully. "There were marbles of some sort," she added.
"Yick." Vi gazed into the milk of her cereal bowl. "Though I guess I prefer bad dreams to living nightmares," she mused.
Andrew sighed.
"You're way too quiet," Dawn told him.
"Yeah. I was just thinking."
Dawn gave a mock gasp. "Will wonders never cease?"
Vi tossed a soggy mini-wheat at her and said to Andrew, "Enlighten us, Yoda."
"I was just thinking..." Andrew forced the shadows from his mind. "That our sorrows should be drowned in Venti Frappuccinos."
"Ooh." Dawn grinned, seeming to come alive. "That is a fantastic idea."
Vi gave Andrew's arm a friendly squeeze. "How'd you get so smart?"
"It'll be a girls' day out!" Dawn lit up excitedly.
He felt he should protest in defense of his manhood, but Andrew was feeling warm over being included in their group. What came out instead was, "and we can hit up that kiosk with those cute vintage tees at the street market!"
The girls exchanged a look, communicating that this was indeed a wonderful idea. Dawn said, "We should stop by the mall, too."
Andrew stole one mushy mini-wheat from Vi's bowl. "We should?"
"I don't want to go to the mall." Vi smacked Andrew's hand away from her food. "It'll be mad busy today."
"But the shirt!" Dawn raised her eyebrows. She was attempting, it appeared, to psychically convey something to Vi.
It seemed to work. "Oh, that!" She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "We blew off training the other day and went out to the mall. Dawn and I saw this great shirt at Hot Topic. That totally reminded us of you." Vi grinned at Andrew. "Had, um... Fraggles, or something equally adorkable on it. Very Andrew."
Andrew giggled. "Aw. You two are the best." His insides were warm and fuzzy like an electric blanket. He'd never felt so good with his old friends. His dead friends, he corrected himself, and thought perhaps he shouldn't be thinking ill thoughts of them.
He fell silent. It was taking every last fiber of him to suppress the familiar surge of guilt. Andrew forced a smile, not wanting to concern the girls. This was how he now lived.
* * *
"I have decided," the young man on the video stated, "that I won't be repeating how I'm not crazy anymore. It's one of those things, like, the more you repeat it? The crazier you sound. And when you think about it, if you're watching this tape, then you've probably had some Hellmouth-or-otherwise-induced craziness in your life. The more I learn about the people here, the more unbelievable their stories get..."
* * *
"Today was nice."
He wasn't talking to anyone -- or maybe he was, but would deny it if heard by living ears -- and his voice seemed much too loud in the empty room.
"I went out with Dawn and Vi." Andrew sat down on the bed and untied his shoes. "We went to Starbucks. I know we should patronize, like, Coffee Bean or some small place but Starbucks is just so close and no one can do a frosty caramel frappuccino like they do."
He stopped, feeling stupid as his words bounced off the silent walls.
"Um." He glanced around himself. "Warren?" The word was whispered, and Andrew was both hopeful and fearful that he'd receive an answer.
But there wasn't any. Not a flicker of light, not even that nervous feeling he'd grown accustomed to. It was unreasonable to feel disappointed, but he couldn't help it.
Andrew kicked his shoes off, onto the messy floor, then wriggled out of his shirt.
He kept the lamp switched on that night, and didn't fall asleep until well after midnight. Just like he would've denied speaking to the stagnant air of the room, Andrew would also have denied that he'd tried to keep himself from drifting to sleep until he absolutely couldn't keep his eyes from closing.
* * *
What he dreamed didn't matter. Andrew was shot through with an orgasmic buzz and he writhed with the feeling in pleasure that approached agony.
The second wave caused Andrew to cry out. This is what woke him.
Electric fingers trailed down his hip, skating over the thin cotton of his striped pajamas. Andrew tensed up, suppressing the fear he felt, and choked out, "Hey."
Warren looked up, all huge eyes rimmed in black lashes and translucent skin. "I didn't mean to wake you," he said, his voice tinged with guilt.
Andrew looked down at the bunched-up blanket he'd kicked off during the night. It was warm. The window was closed. There was no breeze, just still September air hanging dead both outside and between the walls.
"Is this a dream?" It felt foolish having to ask. Andrew fixed his gaze on Warren's pale hand resting on the mattress.
Warren's fingers were statue-still, but seemed to be wavering against the solid reality of the bed. "Do you want it to be?" Warren asked.
Andrew couldn't answer. Literally couldn't. His voice seemed trapped below his throat, his throat seemed to be vibrating inside his skin, his tongue had become fastened to the base of his mouth, his jaw refused to open and his brain refused to supply an answer to the question.
He -- Warren -- sat cold and blurry toward the end of the bed, on the opposite side of the mattress. A thousand thoughts bred and split like amoebas inside Andrew's mind. He wondered if he should try banishing this apparition as he had before. He wondered if he appeared as alien and out-of-focus to Warren as Warren did to him.
This specter looked different from Warren the same way a reflection differs from the reflected: it lacked humanity, a spark of life, just a cold artist's rendering of a person's form. Andrew found himself feeling very fleshy and pink next to the apparition. It made him self-conscious.
"Andrew." It spoke with Warren's voice, and it quivered, a hollow shadow of human speech. Warren lifted his eyes to Andrew and stared imploringly. His eyes weren't the same eyes that'd once watched hours of Doctor Who in the basement with Andrew; they were black but shimmered like a cat's eyes, like they could see directly into Andrew's head and burn out all the wicked thoughts.
This wasn't the First, Andrew was certain. This was a whole other entity.
"I don't want you to be uncomfortable," the shade told him. "Are you... are you uncomfortable?"
Andrew's mouth moved, but no words came out. After a moment, he choked out, "Stay."
Against the mattress, the spectral hand twitched as if it would reach over and touch Andrew, but Warren clutched his hands tightly in his lap to prevent such a move. "One of the good guys now," commented Warren, conversationally, with a small smile.
"Yeah," confirmed Andrew. "I've worked hard... to -- to redeem myself."
Spirit eyes ate him up. "You look good."
It'd been so, so long, and those words from Warren still made him feel amazing. Andrew felt his skin flush with warmth. "Thanks," he replied. A smile cracked his face. "And you look amazing, like -- like an angel, or something. Only... no wings."
"Also..." Warren ran a hand over his eternally mussed hair. "No halo."
Andrew snorted.
Looking indignant, Warren swatted playfully at him. "An angel... honestly, Andrew, you're so..." Softness crossed his face. His gaze was suddenly deeply affectionate. "I've wanted to see you again for the longest time."
"Have you?"
"Did you forget my face, Andrew?"
It was a peculiar question, and startled Andrew. Frowning, he shook his head. "No. No... Why would I do that?"
"Because I almost forgot it," answered Warren. "But I never forgot yours."
"Oh."
Moonlight eyes bored into Andrew's. "I followed you here."
"Yeah." His gaze dropped again to the white hands, now wringing together in Warren's lap. "I figured." Andrew stirred; he had the feeling those eyes were touching him in places they didn't belong. "I mean... how else would you wind up in LA, right?"
Warren exhaled an icy, jagged breath. It made Andrew jump; he wondered if Warren had been breathing this entire time and he'd only now noticed, and why something dead and spectral would do so in the first place. It seemed a charge had gone through the air and Andrew had started feeling distinctly uneasy.
"I could feel you."
Andrew tightly gripped the blankets until the knuckles turned white as the skin of Warren's hand.
Was he imagining it, or was Warren's face melting?
"I could sense you, and I followed, all this way, through the -- the -- ether, whatever..."
The voice, too, was melting, until it had become a series of mind-piercing noises that might have been words. Andrew bit the inside of his lip and tried to keep calm. Warren wouldn't hurt you, he told himself, however foolishly, and you've been through worse than a little haunting.
"I love you." Those iridescent eyes hovered in the same place they'd been, but the rest of the face had gone soft at the edges. The longer he looked, the features seemed to collapse in on themselves, shift in subtle turns, and Andrew wasn't certain if it was the skin that rippled or if, perhaps, something in his mortal eyes just couldn't process that at which he stared.
"Andrew -- " He blinked, rapidly, trying to clear the image before him. Warren's face was still a smudge in the dark. " -- I love -- "
Warren hesitated. He might have noticed Andrew's increasing disquiet. "I should go," he said.
"Will you come back?"
"Nothing's going to keep me away." His smile was a smear on the watercolor mess of a face.
Andrew watched the form dissipate before him until it was a cloud of boy-shaped mist. He found himself reminded of the death of the T-1000 from Terminator 2. Then, like lightning, Warren's arm shot out and grasped Andrew's knee. "You'll never be alone now," the wisp told him.
"No," breathed Andrew, startled, "I -- I won't."
That sounded anything but reassuring. He trembled; his knee buzzed from the contact.
The collective shimmer was gone, with Warren's bright shining eyes the last to vanish. He could almost see them, still, like spots burnt onto the dark -- ghosts of a ghost.
Andrew sat alone in the dark for several minutes before the bedside lamp flickered back on.
* * *
The previous noon, seated around a sun-dappled table outside Starbucks, he was asked, "What are your nightmares about, Andrew?"
Andrew blinked across the table at Dawn. "In the worst ones," he answered, "Jonathan never died, Warren's still alive, and I got everything I'd once wanted."
* * *