Disclaimer:  Not mine, not mine.  But look me in the eye, and tell me this isn't the way it should go.  Seriously.  Andy isn't a bad guy, he's just a victim of bad circumstances.  I mean, his brother summoned Hell Hounds to crash the Prom.  Can you imagine what living at home would have been like?  Or how absentee his parents must have been?  "Tucker, Dear, what are you doing?"  "Summoning Hell Hounds, Mom."  "Did you finish your homework?"  "Yes, Mom,"  "Where's your brother?"  "Playing with his toys alone in his room, Mom."  "Ooh, I wish that boy would own up and face life.  He can't hide in his room for the rest of his life with his toys!  He needs to get out there, make some friends, experience new experiences, get a tan, and realize that sometimes you don't get what you want, but that you have to get back on that horse!  Tucker, what did you say you were doing?"  "Uh, nothin'."

Uhh…sorry 'bout that…hehe

Read and review, and tell me if I should make a spin-off story or something, mmmKay?

            Andrew huddled into the corner, the fleece blanket pulled tight around his shoulders.  He was thinking about the last twenty-four hours—in fact, he couldn't stop thinking about the last twenty-four hours.  He and Jonathan had arrived in Sunnydale, only to try to—well, he wasn't sure what they had been trying to do.  Warren hadn't really explained any of it, as it so often went with Warren's plans.  But, just as when Warren had been alive, the plans did not matter, so long as Andrew was included in them.  Now, Jonathan was dead at his own hand, and Spike had attacked him for trying to tell Buffy's friends what he had done.  Nothing was making any sense to him, it was all a muddle of events and instructions, and—God, he'd killed Jonathan.

            "Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself." Warren grumbled from the opposite side of the room.  "What's done is done.  Do you see me crying?"

            "I'm not crying.  Just go away.  I don't want to talk to you anymore.  And I won't help, either.  We're through, Warren.  You'll just have to find someone else."

            "But, Andy, you're a murderer now.  Do you think the Scoobies are just going to open up their loving arms and let you join the club?  Hell no, Baby, they're gonna grill you on a skillet until they deem you no further use to them.  And then they're just going too hand you over to the cops.  Again,"

            "You don't know that.  You're just messing with my head."

            "Am I?  Come on, we're practically the same.  We've both killed someone—two someones, in my case.  Only, I was a snappier dresser, and I had better hair."  Andrew touched his hair absently.  Warren smirked at the other's reaction to his words.  "So come on, stop pouting, and let's blow this Popsicle stand."

            "No," Andrew stated firmly.

            "What?"

            "I said no.  I never said no to you before, Warren, and I always hated myself for that.  Not anymore.  We are through.  Now you go away, and I never see your spectral self again and I live happily ever after, and you just…do whatever it is you do.  But away from me."

            Warren's lips curled into a grin, and then he laughed.  The sound that came from the ghost made Andrew cringe.  Although it was meant as a display of humour, the laughter was cruel, evil, and mirthless.  Warren stopped abruptly, and stared Andrew down.  "You pathetic Mortal, you have no idea how insignificant to my plan you are.  You are a pawn, Andrew, nothing more.  Don't fool yourself into thinking that you have foiled anything that I intend.  This is only the beginning."

            The door opened, and Buffy stood there, framed by the light from the hallway beyond.  "Who are you talking to?"

            Andrew looked back to where Warren had stood, but he was gone.  "No one."  He got up, still clutching the blanket around his shoulders.  "We need to talk."