And the Andrew stands alone
May. 7th, 2003 01:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zebralittle52This is an idea I had for the MMoM. After last night's ep. it really fell into place. Please let me know what you think. ^^
Andrew couldn't sleep. The house vibrated with the wrong kinds of noise, Faith's room and the girl's room and all he wanted to do was get away. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere he could forget the scene in the basement, the phantom pain of his (a, not his. A) throat being cut, the words that he wouldn't say but could still feel rattling past his tongue and out his mouth.
I am only a fragment of the We. We work as one to serve the First.
Quietly heading downstairs, he wanted to find... He almost wished for Warren. Not The First Warren.
Or, rather, not Warren Slash The First.
Eww. No.
His Warren.
The Warren who really hadn't been his, no, but who could make him feel everything would be all right. The one who filled his head with plans and promises, and would do things to make him happy.
Okay, not happy, but at least make him compliant. Send him to his knees on the scratchy carpet that's probably still in the basement across town, do things that made him believe.
He wouldn't try to kill Babe for just anybody.
Squeezing the railing a little tighter, trying to command his hand to shop shaking, he closed his eyes and reminded his brain not to go there. He was here now, on the side of Not The First, and that was the right side to be on.
Hoping some ice cream would help his throat, he headed for the kitchen. Slowing at the sound of voices, recognizing the voice of sounds, he stopped. Stared at the wall. The kitchen was just around the corner, just a few steps away from where he feet had turned to stone, but he couldn't move. Not in the 'bad spell' kind of way, but in the 'bad noise' kind of way. And the noises weren't really bad, were they? Just... wrong. They were the right kind of sounds, low and rich and eager, pouring out at what he could only imagine had to be a familiar touch. But the wrong... hands. The wrong lips. The wrong person was doing the touching.
Those were supposed to be his hands.
In his fantasies, the ones he knew from reality thankyouverymuch, it was him. The same kitchen, sure. The same linoleum. But the sun would be streaming in through the window, making the dishes he'd been washing shine. The door would open behind him, filling the air with warm flannel and construction zone sweat, and strong arms would circle him from behind.
"Stop that! My hands are dirty." He'd hold up a sponge.
"My hands are dirty, too. What are you afraid of?", whispered in his ear.
That's usually about the time he'd prove he wasn't afraid of anything. But Xander would never dress like Han Solo, and he wasn't allowed to wash the dishes any more after breaking Dawn's favorite mug the other day, and.... Oh god and...
How did she make him growl like that?
His body never registered the fall to his knees, biting his lip automatically to cut off a strangled mew. So long, it had been so long, and you really couldn't masturbate in the bathroom when She might barge in, and shag was really a lot softer on the knees than berber. Cool.
Somehow his hand had slipped inside his sleeping shorts, squeezing and tugging, his breathing soon as rushed as the bodies on the other side of the wall. He had to stay quiet, stay small, huddle against the molding and stroke himself harder. Had to smear the sticky wet against his palm to slick his fist, tight fingers flashing over flesh, and he could almost... almost imagine... Oh.
Oh Xander!
Oh God!
...oh god.
Hot come pooled, ran between his fingers, leaving him gasping and heady. Scared at being discovered.
He had to go clean up, had to get out of there, had to go.
Before they started again, and another fantasy died.
Andrew couldn't sleep. The house vibrated with the wrong kinds of noise, Faith's room and the girl's room and all he wanted to do was get away. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere he could forget the scene in the basement, the phantom pain of his (a, not his. A) throat being cut, the words that he wouldn't say but could still feel rattling past his tongue and out his mouth.
I am only a fragment of the We. We work as one to serve the First.
Quietly heading downstairs, he wanted to find... He almost wished for Warren. Not The First Warren.
Or, rather, not Warren Slash The First.
Eww. No.
His Warren.
The Warren who really hadn't been his, no, but who could make him feel everything would be all right. The one who filled his head with plans and promises, and would do things to make him happy.
Okay, not happy, but at least make him compliant. Send him to his knees on the scratchy carpet that's probably still in the basement across town, do things that made him believe.
He wouldn't try to kill Babe for just anybody.
Squeezing the railing a little tighter, trying to command his hand to shop shaking, he closed his eyes and reminded his brain not to go there. He was here now, on the side of Not The First, and that was the right side to be on.
Hoping some ice cream would help his throat, he headed for the kitchen. Slowing at the sound of voices, recognizing the voice of sounds, he stopped. Stared at the wall. The kitchen was just around the corner, just a few steps away from where he feet had turned to stone, but he couldn't move. Not in the 'bad spell' kind of way, but in the 'bad noise' kind of way. And the noises weren't really bad, were they? Just... wrong. They were the right kind of sounds, low and rich and eager, pouring out at what he could only imagine had to be a familiar touch. But the wrong... hands. The wrong lips. The wrong person was doing the touching.
Those were supposed to be his hands.
In his fantasies, the ones he knew from reality thankyouverymuch, it was him. The same kitchen, sure. The same linoleum. But the sun would be streaming in through the window, making the dishes he'd been washing shine. The door would open behind him, filling the air with warm flannel and construction zone sweat, and strong arms would circle him from behind.
"Stop that! My hands are dirty." He'd hold up a sponge.
"My hands are dirty, too. What are you afraid of?", whispered in his ear.
That's usually about the time he'd prove he wasn't afraid of anything. But Xander would never dress like Han Solo, and he wasn't allowed to wash the dishes any more after breaking Dawn's favorite mug the other day, and.... Oh god and...
How did she make him growl like that?
His body never registered the fall to his knees, biting his lip automatically to cut off a strangled mew. So long, it had been so long, and you really couldn't masturbate in the bathroom when She might barge in, and shag was really a lot softer on the knees than berber. Cool.
Somehow his hand had slipped inside his sleeping shorts, squeezing and tugging, his breathing soon as rushed as the bodies on the other side of the wall. He had to stay quiet, stay small, huddle against the molding and stroke himself harder. Had to smear the sticky wet against his palm to slick his fist, tight fingers flashing over flesh, and he could almost... almost imagine... Oh.
Oh Xander!
Oh God!
...oh god.
Hot come pooled, ran between his fingers, leaving him gasping and heady. Scared at being discovered.
He had to go clean up, had to get out of there, had to go.
Before they started again, and another fantasy died.
