Love is...

Title: Love Is Loyal
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: Sure! Let me know where the boys go, though.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Andrew/Spike
Feedback: Yes!
Dedication: As always, to Katie and Kaz
Author's Notes/Summary: Takes place during Touched. Andrew and Spike meet up with trouble on the road.

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He’s driving me crazy.

The whelp has to pee again. We’ve already stopped twice, but he has to go again. He’s worse than a girl. I made him wait but I know that I’ll be stopping in another couple of miles because he asks me to. I really am soft on the kid. He can be so irritating, but he can also be so…

“Watch out, Spike!”

I lunge as a beer bottle sails past my head. I am beginning to realize that the loud roar of my motorcycle isn’t the only sound on the road. Why didn’t I hear that before? Too busy thinking about the boy. Damn. There’s a large, expensive pickup truck bearing down on us, trying to pass. The passenger, no doubt some sniveling college student, is hanging out of the window, throwing whatever garbage he can at us.

“Bite him, Spike!” Andrew yells, as a fast food container hit’s his arm.

“I’m on a motorcycle, pet, in case you didn’t notice.”

I start slowing down, allowing the truck tss. ss. If I was alone, if I didn’t have a soul now…but I’m not. I have Andrew back there and come hell or high water, I’m going to finish this mission. It’s hard to remain calm when the boy is writhing around behind me, though. He’s just started with the bouncing as well and he’s likely to bounce himself right off if he’s not careful.

The truck isn’t passing, even though I’ve slowed. It’s pacing us, driving down the wrong side of the highway. This can’t be good.

“Andrew?”

“Yeah?”

“Hang on. Tight.” He obliges and wraps his arms more tightly around me. Leaning low to the bike, I kick up the speed and in a few minutes, the truck is no more than a pinpoint of light behind us.

“Wow. That was close.”

“Yeah.”

“Those guys were mean.”

“Yeah.”

“Spike?”

“Yeah?”

“I really, really have to pee now.”

Bloody hell.

I’ve been driving us through low hills for most of the night. Ahead, the road continues to cut through hills and enormous granite boulders. I can see a small shoulder nearly a mile away.

“Can you wait for one mile?”

“Um, I think so.”

“Stop bouncing around back there. You’ll only make it worse.”

“Okay.”

It’s not that I don’t like the boy. He’s really quite grown on me these last few weeks. And I’ve come to enjoy his company more than I’ll admit to the others. He’s quite an enigma. Andrew is completely unaware of his own body or his sense of self. He’s like a child in the body of a young man and he doesn’t understand what he should do or…it’s like that movie. The one with the child who wishes he were big and then, poof! He is. What was that movie? Andrew would know.

Oh. Bloody. Hell. I’m starting to sound like him.

“Will this do?” I say, to distract myself. I can hear a complaint coming, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

“It’s all flat over here. There’s no…you know…privacy.”

“You’re on a covert operation, Andrew. Deal with it.”

“But I caaaaan’t,” he whines. “I won’t be able to go if I know people can see me.”

“There’s no one around, love. No one’s going to see you.” I can feel my patience wearing thin.

“But someone could come—“

“Andrew!” Buffy wouldn’t *really* mind if I ate him, would she? I mean, she might even thank me…

“What?” He snaps at me. Hum. That was sort of, well it was rather…confident. I’d certainly like to see more of that.

“What would James Bond do?” I ask sweetly. I’m grasping at straws here. Time is not our friend and the longer we stand here, the greater the sense of doom I feel. The First can wait as long as it wants. We don’t have that luxury.

Andrew is surveying the landscape, his brows creased. It’s rather adorable…in a manly way, of course.

“I’m going up there,” he says brightly, and then begins the short trek up the hill. Hot and cold. Child and man. Andrew is a puzzle.

To tell you the truth, I also have to go to the bathroom. I don’t harbor his Victorian sense of modesty, though. I just unzip and let ‘er rip. The air is cool and the sky is thick with stars. Even *I’m* willing to admit that it is a beautiful night. My poetic waxing is going to have to wait, though. As I zip, I can hear a car approaching from behind.

The pickup swerves past and, for a second, I think it might even keep going until it slides to the shoulder in front of the bike and then I know there’s going to be tle. le. The passenger slides out on unsteady legs, carrying a tire iron. The driver weaves around the front to join him, tossing an open container against one of the large boulders that litter the highway.

“Why did you leave so fast?” The driver slurs, reaching into the back of his truck.

“Yeah, dude, we just wanted to talk with you,” the other man says, trying to spin his weapon but dropping it. The driver has found his weapon of choice. A baseball bat. Typical.

These two are a joke. The Laurel and Hardy of the college scene, too bloated on trust funds and daddy’s connections to be of any real value to the world. These two I would definitely bite. I assess them with the predator’s eyes. Both are drunk, their reflexes sluggish and their skill with their chosen weapon obviously lacking. I want to bite them but I think maybe they would be more trouble than they’re worth. I could knock them out or I could beat them senseless. The possibilities are endless. I light a cigarette, deciding that the first move they make will dictate what I do.

“We just going to stand here all night, boys? Or are we going to fight?” I ask.

“Ooooh, an English dude. That supposed to scare us? Hey, Brett. Billy Idol here thinks he can take us!” It’s a ridiculous comment, since “Brett” is standing right next to him, but Americans always like to talk ‘fore their beatings. Least that’s my experience.

“I don’t know. He seems pretty scary to me. What do you say, ‘Billy’? You wanna party?” He swings his bat in what I’m sure he thinks is a menacing manner. My eyes are still tracking their feet. They aren’t ready. Not yet. They’re trying to get up their courage. Both have got a couple of beers in them but it still isn’t enough yet. Bunch of pansies. I’ve all but decided to eat them when the pager ger moves.

With a banshee-like call of “Dude!” he launches forward. Before he’s crossed the ten or twelve feet to get to me, though, another war cry breaks the quiet of the night.

“Cowabunga!!!” A large body is hurtling from the overhang above us before I have figured out what is going on. It crashes into *Dude* and clings to his back as they tumble to the ground. The driver is looking a little overwhelmed.

On the ground, Andrew is bitch-slapping Dude over and over. I don’t know which one of them I should lend a hand to. Andrew changes tactics and grabs the other man’s hair, slamming his face into the ground. “Never.” Slam. “Hurt.” Slam. “My.” Slam. “Friends.” Slam. Andrew’s adversary probably has forty pounds on him but the boy has had a lot of sugar tonight, so I decide that they’re pretty evenly matched for now. I turn my attention to the driver.

“Hey, man, I mean…we just wanted to talk, you know? About…England…and stuff…” He is edging backward toward the driver’s side door. When he reaches it, he scurries inside and locks it. It’s just as well. I turn my attention back to the passenger.

“Andrew? Andrew?” The whelp isn’t listening. I try to pluck him from the writhing figure he’s straddling but his stray arm hit’s me in the chest. Hard. He’s a pistol when he gets started! Have to admire that. I almost want to see where he’s going with this guy, but it’s getting late and we’ve bigger things to worry about than these two drunken blokes.

“And that’s for not letting me finish peeing. And that’s for hitting Spike with a bottle. And that’s—“

“Andrew! We have to go. We have things we need to take care of, *first*.” I raise my eyebrow at him hoping he’ll pick up on the urgeof mof my words.

“First…yeah…first.” He slides off the body below him and stands. Andrew squints threateningly at the other man. “I’m gonna let you go now. You tell your friend to wait…uh…thirty minutes before you leave.” He shakes his head seriously. “And I don’t want to see your ugly face again.”

Dude looks like he might object to this arrangement. He is wiping blood from his chin and makes a move to approach us. I slip behind Andrew.

“Go ahead,” Andrew whispers. “Make my day.” Behind him, I have to shift to gameface. I have to. It’s just too perfect. Dude begins wailing and stumbles to the truck as fast as he can. He scrambles into the passenger seat and locks the door. It looks as if the driver wants to leave, but the other man is arguing with him. Probably giving him Andrew’s instructions to let us have a thirty-minute headstart.

“Come on,” I tell him, and we climb on my bike. I start it and peal off loudly leaving the two sputtering cretins behind.

“That was awesome!” Andrew is squirming again and I shift back automatically, pressing into his excited body.

“That was…” I’m not sure what to say. I’ve never seen him like that. Not at Buffy’s house, not ever.

“Did you see their faces? I thought they were going to pee their pants!”

“What about you?”

“Me what?”

“Do you still have to pee?”

“No, I’m cool.”

His heart is racing. I can feel it echo through his body and into mine. He’s giving off an insane amount of pheromones, too, and I can hardly keep the bike on the road. A fight will do that to you. Get your blood pumping; let you know you’re alive. He’s twitching, still riding his high. I don’t think he’s aware of it, but his hands have slid just beyond my hips, his fingertips each resting in the crease between my thighs and my dick. The bike bumps and they bounce forwards, stroking me.

Bloody hell! The pleasure is exquisite and he barely brushed me. What would happen if he—no. Got to stop thinking ‘bout that. There are other, more important things going on right now. He doesn’t seem to notice and I thank god that I don’t have a beating heart to betray me. Instead, I speak.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Jump in, there. I could have handled it by myself.” I’m not angry, just curious. I hope he knows that.

“But you weren’t by yourself.”

“Well, I know that, but—“

“Just cause you *can* do things by yourself, doesn’t mean you *should* do things by yourself.”

I’ll second that motion. His hands haven’t moved.

“Besides…” he says, laying his head on my back.

“Yeah?”

“We’re a team.”

You can’t argue with that logic.