Love is...

Title: Love Is Diligent
Series: Love Is…
Author's Name: Scarlet
Author's Email and URL: scarletsfiction@yahoo.com www.geocities.com/karenmnick
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and UPN own Buffy the Vampire Slayer in totality. No profit is made from this piece of fiction and no copyright infringement is intended.
Distribution: Anywhere, just let me know.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Andrew/Spike
Feedback: Yes!
Dedication: To Katie and Kaz!
Author's Notes: Takes place around Dirty Girls, I’d say. The episode, mind you. Not mud wrestlers. Spike observes Andrew’s dedication to duty and artistic integrity. Then he has a smoke.

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The squeak that a marker makes on paper is enough to drive a vamp batty. Seriously batty. I can hear it from the basement and if Anya doesn’t stop it, I’m going to shove the bloody marker down her throat. I won’t say that, of course. Sayin’ what’s on my mind tends to scare people these days. Then, I guess it always did, I just mind it more now.

The squeaking. Louder this time, long even strokes. She’s filling something in. I’m going out of my mind! I have to put an end to this.

I walk up the stairs and cross through the kitchen to the living room. “Anya, dear. I don’t know what new project your working on, but you have to stop.” But when I get to the living room, it isn’t Anya working on the big white board. “Andrew? What are you doing? I thought you and Anya finished that big board of yours.”

“We did but, uh, Anya felt my work was ‘too prosaic’ and ‘lacked imagination.’ So, I’m making a new board. With lots of pages. This one will be cool. I have different colored markers, see? And they smell!” He thrust one at my face.

“Yeah, lovely. Look, the sound is driving me crazy, mate. Think you can take it somewhere else?”

“There isn’t anywhere else to go. Some of the slayers are having lunch and some are training in the backyard and all the bedrooms are filled.”

“You try the bathroom?” I joke, but he cocks his head.

“That might work. I could put the board in the bathtub. Thanks, Spike.” He starts to gather his markers, but the guilt finally gets to me.

“Andrew, I was kidding. The living room is fine. I’ll just sleep…in the evening again.” Damn. You’d think I was human, the hours I’m keeping. Suddenly the door opens and I have to step back quickly to avoid being dusted. “Hey! Watch it! Some of us are combustible here.”

“No one we care about,” Xander answers and leads in two new girls, which I assume are more potentials. “You have to leave, Andrew. Buffy and Giles need to meet with the new potentials.”

“But when I’m finished, my board will be a valuable teaching tool for the potentials. You can use it and—“

“Andrew! Get out! You’re being a pain.” Xander steers the two wide-eyed girls to the couch and leaves to find Buffy. I am more than used to Harris’ attitude toward me, but the puppy dog frown that Andrew now wears is enough to make me feel sorry for the lad.

“Come on, Andrew. You can use the basement.”

“Really?”

“Come fast or I’ll change my mind.” He grabs his markers and the giant board tacked with large sheets of paper. I should help him, but I don’t. I’m a vampire-you’re surprised?

In the basement, I light a cigarette. It seems the four of us are destined to be together. Me, Andrew, the basement, and my cigarettes. “So, show me your board.”

“Oh, it’s not done yet. I don’t think I can.” Andrew blushes and instinctively covers the paper.

“Andrew, it’s not like I asked to see you naked. I just want to see what you’re doing.” Maybe it’s the word “naked” but Andrew blushes brighter until I think he might have an aneurysm. Finally, he takes deep breaths and sets his jaws with determination.

“Well, it’s not anywhere near done, yet. Right now, I’m just illustrating the key players. You know, Buffy and Faith and the Bringers.” He pulls out pages of illustrations.

“These are…wow, Andrew. Not too bad.” And they aren’t. He’s no sso,sso, but Pablo always was an overrated fool. Couldn’t play cards to save his life, either. But that’s a different story. Andrew’s illustrations actually look like the people they are supposed to look like, which is far better than I can say about my own skill.

“So, you know…I’m still working on them.” He’s shown me perhaps half of his illustrns, ns, but there are still several he keeps buried under the rest. I’m intrigued.

“What about those?”

“Which ones?” He knows the ones I’m talking about and he shifts the other pictures to cover them further.

“The ones you’re hiding, Andrew. I want to see them.”

“No.”

“No?” There are bloody few people that I let get away with telling me “no” and Andrew isn’t one of them.

“Show me, or I’ll bite you.” I scowl menacingly.

“Yeah…about the biting thing, Spike. I don’t really feel threatened by that. You tell me that all the time. I mean, I know you did bite me once—“

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that.”

“No problem. But even though you did bite me once, I don’t think you’d bite me again, so it’s sort of an empty threat. You should say, like, you’d ‘flay me alive’ because that one, whew, that has punch, you know? Especially after the whole Warren thing. Or you could say ‘eat your bones in a nice soup’ or ‘tie you to a chair’ or ‘find a poison snake’ because I have chair issues now after the hostage thing and I saw “The Raiders of the Lost Ark” when I was little you know?”

Wanker. I thought the biting threat would last for at least another week. “You’re changing the subject. I want to see the other portraits.”

“They aren’t done. I can’t get them right and I don’t want to show them to anyone until they are. Please?” He fidgets with the edges of the paper. His look is so earnest and utterly guileless. That innocent face is going to be the end of me. I know it. So sweet and sad. I’m not sure if I want to bite him or kiss him, so I do neither.

“Fine. But you better keep your scribbling quiet and try not to stink the place up.” He smiles happily.

Decision made.

The thought of kissing Andrew isn’t sitting well with my demon side, so I leave. He waves goodbye and turns to his work, carefully coloring in a tweed jacket for Giles.

***

I can’t take it. It’s so late and I’m tired and I want to sleep. I just want to put my head on the pillow and curl onto that crappy cot and dream of showgirls and bourbon but I know he’s still down there scribbling away. It couldn’t possibly take this long to draw pictures of the key figures. Hell, The First doesn’t even need a picture.

The house is dark and almost everyone is asleep. Even the new slayers are tucked comfortably, if not confidently, into their sleeping bags on the floor of Dawn’s room. Maybe he’s done. Maybe he finished hours ago and is now snoozing peacefully in Dawn’s room with ‘em. I make ay day down the stairs and pause quietly on the landing.

He’s asleep.

There is a fat red marker clutched in one hand and his other hand is pillowed under his head. His body is laying on what appears to be an illustration of a very voluptuous Buffy. Do I move him or do I leave him there? He’ll be mad when he wakes up. He’ll blame me for his soar muscles and aching bones. But he looks peaceful and I know if I wake him up, he’ll be yammerin’ again and I won’t get any sleep.

Andrew shifts and rolls slightly, the marker tumbling from his hand. I watch it’s progress across the floor littered with illustrations. There’s a Bringer. There’s a Turok-kahn. Stretch slightly, and you can see the bottom half of Xander, clearly identifiable by his toolbelt. I have to laugh. He’s done a remarkable job. But still, the pile is there. The pile of pictures he wont let anyone see.

It’s a moral decision, really. To look or not to look. Couple of months ago, I would have looked without a second thought. Today, well, I still look. But I feel real bad about it.

I have to move the sleeping body over to get to them. He hides them in his sleep and that makes me more intrigued. What could possibly be so hard to draw that he works on it hour after hour? I lift his body, surprisingly heavy, and free the pages quickly. He stirs and I wait. Then he rolls to his stomach and is quiet. As gently as possible, I pull back the pages.

Me.

Me. Spike. The Big Bad. Of course, I could have figured. There are illustrations of *everyone* on the floor, but me. Still…

There are dozens. Me in full game face. Me in human face. Wearing my coat, wearing a smile, wearing fangs. Me sleeping on that terrible cot, me arguing with what appears to be Rona-though he’s got the hair wrong. Each one half done. Each one charming in its own way. I replace them quickly, embarrassed now.

It’s no wonder he’s taking so long wiy piy picture. I told you. Pictures hide things. You can’t put everything you want to express into a picture. Andrew is trying to, though. And that’s where he’s having trouble. I want to wake him and tell him that whatever he wants to tell me, he’d best do it in a letter because the saying is wr A p A picture isn’t worth a thousand words. It speaks to you. It does. But it doesn’t always tell the truth. For example, in one illustration, it looks like I’m biting Dawn. I *am* a vampire after all. But I’d sooner chew off my own arm as bite Dawn. See? Pictures lie.

I take a blanket from the bed and lay it on him. He doesn’t stir. If I move him, he’ll know his secret pictures are exposed and I don’t want that, so I leave him there to suffer the aches and pains of a cold basement floor. The boy really is… engaging.

***

“…and they’re harder to kill than the Terminator but Buffy kicked one’s ass once and I got to see it. It was really neat and they dust just like regular vampires. And this is a Bringer. They have scarred eyes, as you can see in my illustration, and cloaks. They are allies of The First and particularly good at stabbing even though they lack depth perception and, uh, sight. So, that concludes my lecture…um, thank you for giving me this chance to help you and…uh…informing you of what you are up against. Thank you.”

Andrew finishes his speech and sits down. It’s not a bad speech, to tell you the truth. I won’t tell him that, of course, but I understood it. Can’t say the same for his audience. The new slayer is Spanish and has probably not understood a word he’s said. She seems to like the pictures, though. I’ll try to remember to tell the boy that later. I’m not totally heartless.

“The floor is yours, Buffy.” He gestures to the slayer and she moves in front of the new potential. I think her name is Maria. It’s just the four of us home right now and we’re all the welcoming party she is going to get until Giles and Xander get back from the bus station. The other potentials are patrolling with Faith and Willow. For once, the house is quiet.

“Safe. Here. Safe.” Buffy is gazing into the girl’s face and pressing her hand to the floor. Maria smiles and I think she understands. Buffy can do that. Her face tells you that everything will be okay. The opposite of mine, I guess. I sit in a chair, smoking and watching but not speaking. It’s better this way.

“Spike? Could you help me move the easel?” Andrew looks like he is going to bow under the awkward stand.

I move to help him and can’t help asking, “What about me?”

“Huh?” We move through the hall now, setting the easel next to the closet.

“Why don’t *I* get a picture. *I’m* important.” I’m baiting him. I know it but I can’t help it.

“I haven’t finished yours yet. I’m still working on it.”

“Busy little beaver, you are.”

“I told you, I want to get it just right. It should be perfect, ‘cause you’re my friend.”

Cause you’re my friend. Friends. For some reason, I’m a little disappointed.

“Andrew, did you ever think that…”

“What?”

“That maybe you can’t ever get things ‘just right’. Sometimes, you have to settle for ‘just right now.’ “

“Which means?”

“Which means…” I grasp his shoulder gently. “…there is no perfect.” I look into his eyes for a long moment, willing him to understand the idea I’m not even sure I get.

“But if I work harder, you know? I could work on it tonight while you guys take the potentials on patrol, I could—“

“Never mind.”

“What?”

I let my arm drop to my side. “Just keep working. You’re doing fine. I’m sure my picture will be fine.”

“I hope so.”

“It’s just…you’ve done enough. Now they’re just trying to keep you busy. Drawing, presenting, cooking. They’re trying to keep you out from underfoot.” How can I tell him this? He’s so damn naïve. If he wants to stay, there’s so much he needs to learn before the battle. But he doesn’t have to stay, either.

“So?” he says quietly.

“So? You could leave, Andrew. Just walk out the door and go home.” I can’t put what I’m feeling into words yet, but that sense of impending doom is increasing every day and for some reason, the thought of this small, hard-working boy becoming a casualty of war upsets me.

“I’m not going home.” He begins stacking his pictures into the closet, our words private from Buffy and Maria.

“Andrew.”

“What?” I lick my lip, trying to find the nerve to say what needs to be said.

“You’re going to die. You know that, don’t you?” There.

“We’re all going to die, Spike.” He closes the door and looks into my face, his gaze serene. “I just get to choose how and when and where. It’s pretty great when you think about it.” Then he leaves.

Is he brave?

Is he mad?

Don’t know for sure, but I think maybe I want to say he’s brave.

I need a cigarette.