Love is...

Title: Love Is Surprising
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 first.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Andrew/Spike
Feedback: Yes!
Dedication: To Kaz and Katie
Author's Notes: Takes place during Storyteller. Some lines are quoted verbatim. Spike finds himself growing to like that crazy Andrew whelp, despite himself.

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“I thought I told you to piss off with this bloody camera, yet here you are again with that thing in my face. Will you just sod off, before I rip your throat out and eat it?”

I can see the boy wince. God, how that constipated look is beginning to annoy me. “Um, Spike?” he ventures timidly. “The light was kind of behind you.”

I sigh heavily. Don’t want to be seen in a bad light, after all. Figuratively or literally. “Oh, right…uh,” I shift back slightly. “What, is this better then?”

“Oh, yes!” Andrew looks pleased and he begins recording again. I sneer and I leer. I threaten and I swear. After fifteen minutes, Andrew appears giddy with the recorded footage. “This is great! I’ll splice it tonight after the girls go to sleep. Well, if they go to sleep. This place is like Denny’s.” I guess he sees my confused look. “Because it serves food twenty-four hours a day. Plus they let you used their bathroom and you don’t even have to buy anything but I always do ‘cause they have this thing called ‘Moons over My Hammy’ which is like Miami except for—“ I continue to glare at him and his monologue grinds to a halt. He stands, shifting from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. “Do you wanna see the footage I just shot?”

See here’s the thing about vampires, and I know I’m going to sound simple when I say this, but we can’t see ourselves in mirrors. Obviously. But the truth is, we don’t really care about that much. Hell, I went for three decades alone before I saw my own face in a photograph. And if you ask me, seeing yourself in a photo is a bit overrated. Folks look stiff and they hide in photos what they can’t in real life. Darla, she loved to have per picture taken. Vain trollop she was, but I can bear no judgement on that now. Soul and all. What was I talking about? Oh, yes. You’d think looking at videos would be overrated. They’re just moving photos, after all. But the thing is, I love seeing myself on film. Love it. I fancy that someday, I might make a film about my life. A good one ‘course. Not one of Andrew’s self-proclaimed masterpieces. Then again, I haven’t seen his film so maybe the whelp has some talent. I lift my eyebrow at him to show that I am interested and he gestures for me to join him on the basement steps.

For several minutes, we watch me flick cigarette after cigarette at the boy. Is it wrong that I find that amusing? I bet Buffy would have something to say about it. Then again, she doesn’t appear to like the boy all that much more than I do. I take a drag on my current cigarette and flick the butt to the ground. My pack is almost empty, but I guess I’m feeling a little guilty these days, so I offer one to Andrew. He takes one and leans in toward my lighter. I put the flame to the tip and he inhales and for a moment it looks as if things are going to go well. Then the choking begins. Andrew is leaning far over his camera and coughing at the floor, blinking tears from his wide, watery eyes.

I snort. I can’t help it. I knew this would happen.

“That your first fag?” I ask.

“What?” Andrew’s eyes widen and he coughs again, harder this time.

“Sorry.” Damn American English. “Cigarette. Your first cigarette?”

“Oh,” Andrew says with relief. “No, no I’ve had tons. I used to smoke all the time. Just, uh, out of practice,” he lies.

I’m not fooled, but I let the lie go. What else am I going to do? We all had a first time, right?

That’s another thing. When did thoughts like that become commonplace? I’m getting’ soft. That’s what it is. Endthe the world and a spankin’ new soul and I get all charitable. The boy does look uncomfortable, though. And I’m going to feel guilty all night if I don’t say something to him. Trouble is, I’m once again paralyzed with not really caring very much.

“Seein’ you sitting here with that cigarettees mes me think of the first time I had a smoke. Fanny Ellington’s billiard parlor. Eighteen seventy-six, no, seventy-five. God, but I was young.”

“Really? I mean, ‘really, you had a first cigarette’ not ‘really, you were young’ ‘cause of course you were young at some point—although if you smoke now, of course you had a—“ I just stare at him. How do so many words come from such a small body? “Go on.”

“Billiards at Fanny’s were quite the risqué thing at the time. We fancied ourselves thrill-seekers, we did. And billiards weren’t always so popular as they are now. Lots’ of folks thought billiards would bring moral destruction to the youth. Too bad they didn’t know the corruption of the youth’s morals was coming-just about half a decade away.” I snarl happily. Good times. Good memories.

“So, uh, what was going to corrupt the youth’s morals?”

“Me, you sodding simpleton!”

“Oh! Got it.”

“On the day I was turned, had my first woman, and my second cigarette. Neither were my last.” I smirk at him, my words full of innuendo. I’m giving the boy a chance to meet my knowing look, but he just shifts on the hard steps. He looks intrigued, though, by what I’ve said.

“So, you’ve had a lot of women?” he asks.

“A few. Not that I like to brag.”

“No! No, of course you wouldn’t. Cause you’re a gentleman and—“

“Am not! Take that back!”

“Sorry.”

“How ‘bout you?

“What?”

“Women? Lasses? How many?”

“Me?”

“Yes, are you daft? How many?”

Andrew squirms on the uncomfortable step. He’s toying with the buttons of his camera. I really hate that. It’s just a nervous response, I know. He’s trying to avoid…oh. I get it.

“I see.”

“See what?” he whines defensively.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“What? I’m not ashamed.”

“And you shouldn’t be.”

“It’s just…”

“Yeah?” I lean in conspiratorially, narrowing my eyes. I try to appear uneager and nonthreatening, but neither of those are my strong suit.

“I just…” He looks at me with wide eyes, assessing if he can trust me. I should tell him that his secrets would be better kept by Dawn-who can hardly keep the news of the last remaining donut secret, let alone a sexual one-than me, but it seems I’m having rather a lot of trouble finding friends these days. Buffy spares me the cursory glance of a past lover and Dawn can be counted on for a swwordword or two, but since I’ve come to live here in the basement, I’ve been hard-pressed to find a friend. Course, given the chance, I would pick just about any of the others than Andrew, but beggars can’t be choosers, I guess. Even now I can feel the forces of The First aligning and allies will be a precious commodity in the coming apocalypse.

“Look, kid. I get it. You’ve never felt the touch of a wo”
”

“Hey! That’s not true!”

“Your mum don’t count-or Willow, neither,” I say when I see him start to object. “You’re young, yet. I dare say you’ll have plenty of opportunities if you make it out of this battle alive.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right…” he trailed off.

“But?”

“But what?”

“Come on, out with it.”

“But nothing.” Andrew’s twitching fingers have found the camera again. He’s zng ing in and out on a stray butt on the floor. All I can do, of course, is stare until he decides to continue. Or until he decides to leave-a thought which I’m surprised to find leaves me a little disappointed.

“It’s just…I think about sex a lot, you know?”

“Normal.”

“Yeah?” He lets out a relieved breath.

“Perfectly.”

“Good.” Andrew draws a deep breath and continues. “Sex with guys.”

Now it’s my turn to choke.

“See? I knew I shouldn’t havld yld you! I knew it! But you were all ‘I’m Mr. Sensitive Vampire. Share with me.’ and now you’ll tell everyone!” The boy’s face is stained crimson and sweat is standing out on his upper lip. Haven’t seen him in such a state since I taped over his season finale of Enterprise.

“First of all, I don’t sound like that. I’m not bleedin’ Giles! And second, you just caught me by surprise is all. Won’t tell no one if you don’t want me to.” I can see relief wash over the boy after that. Before my soul was returned, I might have mocked Andrew-still want to, truth be told-but the boy’s confession has started stirrin’ something in my soul. Long buried memories are tickling the back of my mind. Memories of Before. William’s memories, though I can hardly remember that man. That me. Experiences my demon once scorned are now precious beyond words to me and when they come I must take them and shine them and hold them close.

“Edward Ellington.”

“Huh?”

“The aforementd Fad Fanny’s brother. Edward Ellington. Four years our senior, mind you. Thought he as a god, I did.” I take a long drag.

Andrew’s eyes are opened wide. He nods, urging me to go on.

“Wasn’t the billiard room with Edward, though. ‘Twas the stables for us. I remember it was raining and the horses were frightened. Don’t know if it was the rain what spooked ‘em or us. His hair was soft and his mouth was so warm.” I take another drag of my cigarette, lost in a most delicious memory. The day in the stables…with Edward riding me in that crude imitation of horsemanship he always had excd atd at…good times. Andrew is staring raptly now, his mouth hanging open slightly, panting. He breaks me from my reverie.

“I see,” he squeaks.

“I hope so.” He is still breathing heavily, his body giving off heat like a furnace and I have to lean in. Have to feel it radiating out of his hormonally charged body. “We have a secret now, you and I. You got a part of me and I’ve got a part of you. That okay?”

“Yeah.” He finally breaks my gaze and sets the camera on the step, wiping his sweaty palms on his jacked. “It’s cool. I won’t tell anyone about you and-and Edward. And you won’t tell anyone I, you know…”

“Like the blokes.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, I don’t think they’d bat an eyelash, Andrew. Their friend Willow is gay and they don’t seem to mind.”

“But I’m not their friend,” he whispers quietly. With dry hands, he picks up the camera and stands. “Uh, thanks for the footage. It will be really cool. And, uh, thanks for the cigarette, and the talk and, uh, stuff.” He cocks his head briefly to the side in a gesture I’ve come to decide is uniquely Andrew. I smile despite myself, but smooth it away a moment after it appears. Andrew smiles back and scurries up the stairs.

The boy needed peace of mind and I gave it to him. I think I’m well on my way to being a right and proper Scooby. Course, it’s a good thing I didn’t tell Andrew about Edward’s subsequent draining and dismemberment five years later. Don’t want to give him nightmares, after all. Best leave the boy with a good picture in his mind. He likes pictures. Likes stories. Stories are words, words have power. I get that. Words have power even when the speaker doesn’t. I myself have penned dozens of stories, hundreds of poems in my human days. Andrew’s camera is no different than my own quill. If telling stories on film or hearin’ them from a vampire eases his mind, then maybe that’s a good thing.

Maybe I am a Good Guy.

Bloody hell.

***

The hour is late and most of the slayers are safely-in a manner of speaking-tucked in their sleeping bags. I dodge the landmine of contact solution, headgear, and prone bodies to make my way to the staircase. My senses tell me that someone is crying. The sobs are high-pitched but muffled and I think that the crier is trying hard not to be heard.

Damn Buffy. This isn’t my job. If she really were a caring sort, she’d be up coddling the girl instead of sleepieavieavily, one arm draped over her pillow. My eyes take her in as I cross the hall and continue toward the bathroom. Can’t look too long, though. Best not go down that road again.

My ears pick up the sound now without the need of preternatural hearing. I hesitate a moment and then rap lightly. I know I’ll get neither quiet nor peace of mind until the person behind this door is placated. At the sound of my knock the sobs shudder to a stop and a low voice speaks guiltily from behind the bathroom door.

“I’m okay.”

Andrew. What is the ridiculous boy troubled with now? “I want to come in.”

“Don’t worry. I’m fine.” There is the sound of toilet paper unrolling and I can almost imagine him scrubbing his tear-stained face.

“Open the door or I’ll knock the door in. And you know I’ll do it, too!” I to to muster the strength to sound menacing, but I have a little trouble finding the motivation. There is a long pause.

“It’s unlocked,” Andrew says finally.

I push my way in and shut the door firmly behind us. “Nowat hat has you boo-hooin' all over the Casa de Summers at,” I check the clock on the bathroom wall, “two thirty in the morning? And before you say ‘nothing’ let me tell you that I *will* bite you if you don’t tell me.” There was the menacing tone, at last.

“Go ahead. I deserve it.”

Well that is certainly not what I expected. The boy’s puffy face-so near to what I’d imagined on the other side of the door-tips up and I can see red eyes now. Andrew has been crying for quite some time. I raise my brow again, a gesture that never hesitates to make the boy continue talking.

“I killed him.”

“Who?”

“Jonathan.”

“You’re just now rememberin’ this?”

Andrew’s eyes begin to fill with tears again. He blinks and they spill from his eyed lad land on this shirt where dark wet spots have already formed.

“Oh, I get it. You’re just now bein’ made redemptive, aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“Redemptive. You feel sorry. You’re just startin’ to feel it. And it hurts, don’t it?” The boy doesn’t speak, his choked sobs answering for him. “I know what that’s like. But multiply it by, oh, pick a big, big number. Then you know how I feel.” I pass Andrew another wad of toilet paper. “So, what happened?”

“We were digging out the seal and Jonathan was still in it and—“

“Not that part. I know that part. Tonight. What happened tonight?”

“Oh. Buffy told me she needed me to close the seal-on account of I can speak Tawarick. And she, um, she told me she w kil kill me. That my blood would close the seal.”

“What?”

“But she didn’t! I mean, she wouldn’t have, but I didn’t know that. She just, she talked to me and, uh…” He began to sob quietly again. “She made me realize how Jonathan felt when I-when I killed him.” He scrubbed at his face and sat down heavily on the toilet. “And I cried then. I cried and my tears closed the seal and now I don’t think I can stop.” The sobbing returns in earnest and I wince at the brittle sound. Even as I curse my own insensitivity, I know I can’t change my na. I. I’ve been a vampire too long. Dawn should really be in here. Or Buffy. I am the Big Bad. I shouldn’t have to take care of wailing semi-hostages at two-thirty in the morning.

“Listen. You have to stop your bawling or you’ll wake Vi. If you think wakin’ me is bad, well, lets just say you haven’t seen horror until you’ve tried to wake her for an early slayer meeting.”

Andrew laughs. The sound is sweet and clear and for a moment I feel an unfamiliar flicker in my chest. He finally looks into my eyes and I glance around instinctively, even though I know we are alone. With resignation, I open my arms and the boy launches himself from the toilet seat toward me. He wraps his arms around me and I hold him stiffly, patting his back in what I hope is a reassuring manner. I hold him this way for quite some time and when the boy’s sobs ease, I pull back.

“If you tell anyone I did this, I’ll bite you-soul or not. I’m still the Big Bad.”

Andrew’s face is filled with what looks like honest respect and maybe a little awe. “Are you kidding? You’re…you’re Spike! You’ll always be a badass.” Andrew nestles his face back into the now-soggy patches on my chest.

You’ll always be a badass. I do believe I might love this boy. Just a little bit.