Love is...

Title: Love Is Thoughtful
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: Of course you may place my baby somewhere nice. Just let me know so I can visit.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Andrew/Spike
Feedback: Yes!
Dedication: To Katie and Kaz
Author's Notes: Takes place during Touched. Andrew sleeps and Spike thinks.

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“It’s daylight! Humans sleep at night and are awake during the day! I won’t be able to sleep now,” he whines.

“Well, can you try? You were up all bloody night with me anyway. Aren’t you the slightest bit tired?”

“I’m just…I’m not used to this, ?”
?”

“Well, no one likes sleeping on the floor, mate. But this is the shelter the fates have provided us with.”

“That’s not what I mean. It’s just…never mind. Do you want some food?”

“That stuff’s not food, Andrew. It’s junk. I’ll get us real food when the sun goes down.” The only food I’ve allowed him in the last ten hours is what we could get when I gassed up the bike. Now he’s bouncing under the influences of candy, chips and highly caffeinated soda. “Please try.”

“Okay, Spike. I’ll try to sleep.”

He wads his jacket up and uses it as a pillow. The temperature is rising and I don’t think the mission has air conditioning. I know it’s going to get hotter before long. I lay out my own coat and stretch out several feet away from him.

“Spike?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you awake?”

“Would I have answered you if I was asleep?”

“I guess not.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Can we talk for just a little bit?”

Bloody hell.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I want to play another game.”

“No.”

“Just Twenty Questions. Okay, ask me the first question.”

“No. I don’t like this game.”

“Aw, come on.”

“No. I didn’t want to play it with Harmony, and I don’t want to play it with you.”

“Just once? Pleeeeaaase? I’ll be your best frieeeeend.”

“You already are.”

Bollocks.

I can’t take it back. And it’s not really a lie. Truthfully, I don’t think I’ve ever really had a friend before. I’ve had lovers and I’ve had travel companions. Had family and people who were obligated to me in one way or another. But I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend.

Until now.

It’s strange. It makes my heart ache. It makes my heart sing. It’s like falling in love, except without all of that ridiculous blissful sex and debauchery.

Speaking of which, the boy is completely clueless. I’m not one to beg and…well, maybe I am one to beg. But I won’t with the boy. Not like I have feelings for him. Just think it could be nice. Two lost souls like us finding comfort ‘fore The First takes us all straight to a bloody, burning death.

Maybe he’s not as daft as he appears. Maybe it’s just me. Now, I know I’m a right attractive fellow but I am, after all, a vampire. For some, that‘s a turn-on (see also one Buffy Summers). For others… Think maybe I frighten him. And not in a good way.

But friendship…I like that.

He’s quiet now. We’ve gotten the information we need but the sun started rising and I’m no good at driving the bike when I’m ashes. I’m silly that way. I can’t help but think my musings have come full circle these last few days. Edward and I in the stables, Andrew and I in the mission.

“Spike?”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Try.”

“Did you mean it? When you said I was your best friend?”

“Don’t know. Maybe.”

“Cause, as revelations go, it’s right up there with, ‘Luke, I am your father.’ “

“Go to sleep.”

“The thing is, for a long time I was living with Jonathan and Warren. And then just Jonathan, and then Buffy took me hostage and I was surrounded by all of these people. Then after that guy said that stuff about Caleb, I guess I’m a little scared and—“

“Get to the point.”

“I’m not used to sleeping alone. I , I’, I’m not alone, but if you really are my friend then you’ll do something and you won’t ask me to explain or—“

“What?” It’s hard to keep the irritation from my voice when he gets like this.

“Will you sleep with me?” he begs quietly. His eyes are wide, his lower lip pouting out. I get hard watching him, spread on the cement floor. He is the very picture of the wanton sex slave, begging for favors.

“Sorry?”

“Like right here. Next to me, you know? Or I could come over there?”

I feel an unaccustomed sense of disappointment, but I’ll take what I can get. I don’t answer, just sit up and smooth my coat until I’ve spread it as wide as I can get it. I roll onto my side and leave half of the coat free. Then I wave my hand, gesturing him to join me. His smile is amazing. He scrambles across the floor and lies next to me, flat on his back. I lay my head on my arm and close my eyes. In minutes he is asleep. When I am sure he won’t wake up, I roll to my stomach and stretch one arm across his chest. It rises and falls with each breath he takes. Feels like I’m breathing.

I breathe until the moment I fall asleep.

***

The rain beats a staccato against the roof as fingernails scratch deep tracks into pale skin. Sweaty bodies moving in rhythm under a tempestuous sky bend and stretch with pleasure. One man is riding the other to an ecstatic climax. As he nears his release, a single word is ripped repeatedly from his lover’s mouth.

“Spike! Spike! Spike…!”

“Spike!”

“Wha?”

“I’ve been trying to wake you for five minutes! We need to move you over. The sun’s coming in through that little hole and you’re going to end up Banta food if we don’t get you out of direct sunlight.”

I’m still confused and more than a little hard. The boy appears just as tired and disoriented as I am. When I come to, I realize that he woke first when a finger of sunlight struck his body. There’s a chink between the bricks that we must not have noticed earlier. It’s gettin’ on late afternoon now and the sun is hitting it just right. It’s just a good thing that Andrew isn’t as combustible as the rest of this partnership.

We roll into a more shaded position and before I can tell him “Thank you,” he is asleep again. The lump on his forehead is bruising now. It won’t be dark but its appearance is still disturbing. I run the tips of my fingers over the injury. I hurt someone. Again. Seems as there’s a neverending ledger held by the Powers That Be. No matter how many things I do right, I'll always be lacking. Makes a soul wonder why they should even try.

He breathes heavily and turns into my touch, his cheek resting on my palm. I draw my thumb across the paper-thin skin under his eyes over and over. His neck is exposed to me and I can still see two tiny pinpoints scarring weeks later. I hurt him. I drank from him. Would have killed him. That I was under the influence of The First is no better excuse for my actions than it was for Andrew’s. We’re alike in that way. Pair of bleedin’ puppets.

His skin is smooth and fair, the result of spending too much time indoors. He doesn’t stir as my thumb brushes his eyes so, encouraged, I continue my exploration. I let my fingers graze the skin of his throat, the shell of his ear, the delicate lobe. I run my fingers lightly through the soft strands of his hair and across the small rise of his chin. His lips are pressed together and I can’t keep from running each finger over them, unwilling to deny any of them the pleasure of that satin-smooth feel. His lips part and for a moment I’m stunned utterly still. Then he exhales and his soft breath tickles my hand. His breath, sweet licorice and soda pop, is intoxicating. I draw closer, trying to find flaws. I’m searching for imperfections, but there are none. Only charming inaccuracies. I can’t help myself. I press my lips to his, half hoping that he wake up and make better use of his jabbering tongue, but he does not stir and I part, unfulfilled.

We are alike, Andrew and I, in more ways than even he realizes yet.