Dirt and Dust...
May. 13th, 2003 02:55 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
jenoofer.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xandrewJust a note - I've decided I hate the first line of chapter five. But unfortunately my brain has shut down and I am unable to think up anything better.
Living on a Hellmouth means Xander is used to freaky things happening. So when, after three hours of trying to sift through the paperwork that has built up in the foreman’s office, Xander begins to feel like his head might explode, he makes a beeline for the door because there’s no saying it won’t actually happen.
Three hours ago, helping with paperwork had seemed like a pleasant change to the chaos and head-hurting-ness of casa de Summers. Now he’s getting homesick for teenage yelling and ultimate evil. So it’s a surprise to find the house empty when he arrives at Buffy’s.
He treads softly through the house until he hears decidedly organised shouting coming from the back yard. The girls are lined up in rows, doing something that looks like caffeine-fuelled Tai chi. It’d be cute if he didn’t know what it was for. Buffy is leading the group, looking focused and calm for the first time in a while. With the sun red and low on the horizon, it looks like it could be a scene from a movie. Dawn is sitting on the porch step, a book open in her lap, but she’s not paying it any attention. She looks around and smiles when Xander approaches.
“They’re not trying to kill each other anymore,” he announces, astounded, as he takes a seat beside her. She watches the group a moment more, and Xander can’t help but worry that Dawn is still clinging just a little to her moment of almost-Slayer-hood. He knows what it’s like to be the one watching the group, after all.
“Buffy’s way of de-stressing the potentials,” she explains. “I think it’s actually working. They’re not yelling at each other anyway, so it’s good enough for me.” She grins at Xander, and he responds in kind. At least he has work and his own apartment when he needs to escape. Dawn’s the one sharing her room with five strange girls.
He scans the rows of girls, some of whom still aren’t recognisable. He wonders if he’ll ever learn all their names. Then wonders if he’ll have time to try.
His gaze comes to rest at the end of the furthest row, on the definitely non-female figure standing a little apart from the formation. Andrew’s face is blocked by the camera in his hands, but Xander can just hear him muttering something to himself. Or possibly to the camera. He’s oddly impressed to see that Andrew is still wearing the yellow shirt from yesterday with his black pants: at least he has the sense to conserve his resources.
Xander looks back at Dawn, nodding his head in Andrew’s direction and furrowing his brow.
“Willow’s got him taping the training sessions,” Dawn informs him with an amused smile. “He was whining about being bored and Buffy was ready to strangle him, so Willow gave him the camera. It’s supposed to be so the potentials can learn from the tapes, but I think he’s trying to turn it into ESPN coverage.”
Xander considers this for a moment.
“Does he even know what ESPN is?”
She giggles, and Xander is happy. It’s not a sound he hears much lately.
They watch a moment longer, until Dawn snaps her book closed, startling him.
“Well, the reading isn’t happening anymore. I’m gonna get a drink.” Her invitation is unspoken, but Xander gratefully gets up and follows her into the kitchen. There is companionable silence for a blissful couple of minutes as Dawn helps herself to a glass of juice and Xander decides to fill a jug of ice water for the trainee Slayers, until the back door slams, shattering the peace.
Three potentials, not one of whom Xander can name, storm into the kitchen and crowd around the refrigerator. They rummage around inside, emptying tubs and jars on to the counter, until Xander hears an outraged “hey”, and all three of them turn back into the room.
Before they can explain the problem, Andrew comes clattering into the kitchen, camera still in hand.
“What did you do?” Xander doesn’t know which one has spoken: they’re becoming interchangeable. It probably doesn’t matter though, because they’ve all fixed Andrew with the same accusatory glare.
Both he and Dawn swivel their eyes to the accused, who takes a second to process the question before his face lights up in realisation.
“Convenience food,” he explains, only to be met with three identical impassive stares. “See, I cooked the meals in bulk and put them in the Tupperware boxes so all you have to do is microwave.” His face is defiantly hopeful. Xander decides it doesn’t help.
“But now there’s nothing in here for in between meals.”
Xander just knows that Andrew is about to respond with something about not eating between meals. ‘Please don’t,’ he thinks as hard as he can in the vain hope that Andrew can tap into the telepathy thing Willow’s got going between her, Xander and Buffy. ‘I can’t take any more yelling, and they’ll just eat you alive.’
Fortunately, both his ears and Andrew’s life are spared when Buffy and Willow appear in the doorway. Behind them, the rest of the potentials have gathered together and are unashamedly staring at the impasse.
“What now?” Buffy’s voice suggests that the de-stressing exercises aren’t as good as Dawn had hoped.
Three voices break into a confused jumble of speech, with Andrew’s name the only recognisable part. Xander watches him fidget under the weight of the words. Flash of egg-yellow bruises, of wide rabbit-eyes and a green towel...
Buffy does the Giles-eyes thing, and Xander watches her clench and unclench her fists for a moment.
“You know what?” she breathes, glancing at the girls, “you deal with it. If you can’t even handle him then what hope do we have?” She turns and stalks out of the kitchen, pushing past the gaggle of potentials that have crowded behind her. Willow casts an imploring glance at Xander, then shakes her head and goes after Buffy. Beside him, Dawn eyes the girls with trepidation, then puts down her glass and leaves without a word.
Potentials to the left of them. Potentials to the right of them. Exhausted and annoyed.
“Andrew? Get in the car.”
*****
Chapter six
*****
He doesn’t speak until the car is halfway down the street.
“You know they’d have ripped you to pieces, right?”
Beside him, Andrew is entirely still, eyes closed and hands clasped tightly in his lap. Xander wonders if he’s heard a single word. He’s about to try again, when –
“I know.” Andrew’s voice is a whisper, of the ‘I still can’t believe I’m alive and don’t want to jinx it’ variety.
He wants to be mad. He wants to yell at Andrew for making Buffy mad, and for pissing off the potentials who certainly don’t need anything else to worry about right now. He just doesn’t know where to start. Andrew’s probably spent the whole day cooking meals and dividing them into microwaveable portions, thinking it’s a helpful, thoughtful thing to do. Which it probably is, Xander decides. It’s just… they didn’t ask for help. They’re supposed to be strong and independent and all Amazon-like, and that means no help from men. Especially boys who get scared by raised voices and prefer wielding a spatula to a stake. That’s not what Slayers do. Or it’s not what potentials think Slayers should do. Not that he can explain any of that to Andrew.
“They’re scared,” he says instead. “They don’t know what they’re doing, they can’t keep up with what’s happening and they can’t admit that to Buffy.”
“But why does everyone take it out on me?” Xander hasn’t heard that whine in a couple of days. It’s not pleasant. In fact, it’s kind of adding to his headache. Andrew folds his arms, and Xander’s certain that if he were standing, he’d be stamping his foot too.
“Because you’re the closest thing they’ve got to a real, physical bad guy right now.” He’s only guessing, but it sounds pretty plausible, so he decides to stick with the theory. The potentials can’t fight the First, and they can’t fight Buffy, so they go for the easiest options: fighting each other and Andrew.
“But I’m helping!” Andrew pouts, unfolds his arms, then folds them again out of sheer frustration. “I don’t deserve this!”
“You’re a hostage!” Xander’s head is threatening to pop again, and the only thing stopping him from turning around and dropping Andrew on Buffy’s front porch again is those damn hunted eyes that flash in his memory at the worst possible times. He has to know he’s doing the right thing: has to know he can’t let them cross the line.
“But I’m good now,” Andrew continues, turning in his seat to face Xander. “I’m helping. I’ve abandoned the Obsidian Order and I’m decoding messages for Starfleet. What more do they want from me?”
He can’t hold back a sigh. It’s all he can do not to close his eyes, to try and shut out Andrew’s pleading expression. Instead he fights to keep the car steady, pressing a little harder on the gas pedal.
“I know you’re trying,” he tells his passenger, who waits expectantly for his advice, “but they don’t need a chef. We’re talking about the end of the world here, Andrew, and you can’t fight that with cookies.”
They watch the road in silence. The wheels hum over the asphalt.
“Um, where are we going?” Andrew asks, after almost a whole minute’s peace.
Xander sighs again.
“I’ve had a day and a half at work. I need to shut down. I want TV and carbohydrates and canned laughter.” He tries to imagine himself stretched out on his couch with a beer and a bag of chips. Then wonders if he has any beer. Or chips. Or food of any kind that doesn’t require any effort. He draws a blank. “I’m going home.”
Which turns out to be an adventure by itself, because as Andrew chatters on about what’s on TV, he spots the video store and decides instantly that a film will be much better than anything television has to offer tonight. Xander’s in no mood to fight any more, and he allows himself to be led inside, where the fluorescent lights buzz like wasps and hurt the insides of his eyes.
They argue because Xander’s already seen ‘Spiderman’ and doesn’t think it stands up to repeat viewing. They argue about whether ‘Freaked’ is really science fiction or just gross-out comedy. Then they team up and argue with the clerk who thinks Alice Krige was a better villain than Ricardo Montalban. Xander thinks if it weren’t for the headache, it might be the most fun he’s ever had while fully clothed.
Not the arguing, which makes his head throb, and certainly not listening to Andrew’s petulant whining, but being around somebody who gets it. Willow tries: she can tell the difference between Doctor Zimmerman and the EMH, and she agrees with Xander’s theory that ‘Space Precinct’ was just a way of using up left-over alien suits, but she’s not cut out for ‘Outer Limits’ marathons or discussions about subtext in ‘Farscape’. Buffy doesn’t pretend to care, and Dawn stopped thinking it was cool the moment she started crushing on Spike.
Xander finds himself wondering what it must have been like to hang out with Jonathan and Warren in Nerd Central. Before Warren went psycho, of course.
They eventually make it back to the apartment bearing Doritos and a copy of ‘Thumb Wars: The Phantom Cuticle’, which the clerk highly recommended. Xander’s certain it was just to get them both out of his store, but Andrew seemed okay with it so he doesn’t complain. Andrew is still yammering on about Lucas-parodies past, and how this one has to be better than ‘Spaceballs’. He asks questions and never waits for answers. Kaleidoscope, Xander thinks. Why won’t it stop turning?
While Andrew sets up the tape, he gulps down painkillers with a glass of water and realises he hasn’t eaten since lunch. Better find something soon, or he’ll end up paying for it.
He pulls off his shoes and leaves them by the door, then joins Andrew on the couch. Andrew doesn’t complain when he snatches away the bag of Doritos and makes an eager start on its contents.
The headache is long gone by the time the movie ends. When he feels a guilty pang at the thought of bailing on Buffy and Willow, he consoles himself with a reminder that he’s still helping, in a way. Andrew is here, relaxed and still giggling, instead of there, whining and getting underfoot. The guilt disappears.
“Steve Oederkerk is my god,” Andrew breathes, and giggles some more. Xander can’t help smiling. He watches Andrew get up and put the tape back in the box. The guy doesn’t look like he’s about to run anymore, or pout, or burst into tears. He seems happy. Xander made him happy. He wonders if that will make up for the bruises.
*****
tbc
Living on a Hellmouth means Xander is used to freaky things happening. So when, after three hours of trying to sift through the paperwork that has built up in the foreman’s office, Xander begins to feel like his head might explode, he makes a beeline for the door because there’s no saying it won’t actually happen.
Three hours ago, helping with paperwork had seemed like a pleasant change to the chaos and head-hurting-ness of casa de Summers. Now he’s getting homesick for teenage yelling and ultimate evil. So it’s a surprise to find the house empty when he arrives at Buffy’s.
He treads softly through the house until he hears decidedly organised shouting coming from the back yard. The girls are lined up in rows, doing something that looks like caffeine-fuelled Tai chi. It’d be cute if he didn’t know what it was for. Buffy is leading the group, looking focused and calm for the first time in a while. With the sun red and low on the horizon, it looks like it could be a scene from a movie. Dawn is sitting on the porch step, a book open in her lap, but she’s not paying it any attention. She looks around and smiles when Xander approaches.
“They’re not trying to kill each other anymore,” he announces, astounded, as he takes a seat beside her. She watches the group a moment more, and Xander can’t help but worry that Dawn is still clinging just a little to her moment of almost-Slayer-hood. He knows what it’s like to be the one watching the group, after all.
“Buffy’s way of de-stressing the potentials,” she explains. “I think it’s actually working. They’re not yelling at each other anyway, so it’s good enough for me.” She grins at Xander, and he responds in kind. At least he has work and his own apartment when he needs to escape. Dawn’s the one sharing her room with five strange girls.
He scans the rows of girls, some of whom still aren’t recognisable. He wonders if he’ll ever learn all their names. Then wonders if he’ll have time to try.
His gaze comes to rest at the end of the furthest row, on the definitely non-female figure standing a little apart from the formation. Andrew’s face is blocked by the camera in his hands, but Xander can just hear him muttering something to himself. Or possibly to the camera. He’s oddly impressed to see that Andrew is still wearing the yellow shirt from yesterday with his black pants: at least he has the sense to conserve his resources.
Xander looks back at Dawn, nodding his head in Andrew’s direction and furrowing his brow.
“Willow’s got him taping the training sessions,” Dawn informs him with an amused smile. “He was whining about being bored and Buffy was ready to strangle him, so Willow gave him the camera. It’s supposed to be so the potentials can learn from the tapes, but I think he’s trying to turn it into ESPN coverage.”
Xander considers this for a moment.
“Does he even know what ESPN is?”
She giggles, and Xander is happy. It’s not a sound he hears much lately.
They watch a moment longer, until Dawn snaps her book closed, startling him.
“Well, the reading isn’t happening anymore. I’m gonna get a drink.” Her invitation is unspoken, but Xander gratefully gets up and follows her into the kitchen. There is companionable silence for a blissful couple of minutes as Dawn helps herself to a glass of juice and Xander decides to fill a jug of ice water for the trainee Slayers, until the back door slams, shattering the peace.
Three potentials, not one of whom Xander can name, storm into the kitchen and crowd around the refrigerator. They rummage around inside, emptying tubs and jars on to the counter, until Xander hears an outraged “hey”, and all three of them turn back into the room.
Before they can explain the problem, Andrew comes clattering into the kitchen, camera still in hand.
“What did you do?” Xander doesn’t know which one has spoken: they’re becoming interchangeable. It probably doesn’t matter though, because they’ve all fixed Andrew with the same accusatory glare.
Both he and Dawn swivel their eyes to the accused, who takes a second to process the question before his face lights up in realisation.
“Convenience food,” he explains, only to be met with three identical impassive stares. “See, I cooked the meals in bulk and put them in the Tupperware boxes so all you have to do is microwave.” His face is defiantly hopeful. Xander decides it doesn’t help.
“But now there’s nothing in here for in between meals.”
Xander just knows that Andrew is about to respond with something about not eating between meals. ‘Please don’t,’ he thinks as hard as he can in the vain hope that Andrew can tap into the telepathy thing Willow’s got going between her, Xander and Buffy. ‘I can’t take any more yelling, and they’ll just eat you alive.’
Fortunately, both his ears and Andrew’s life are spared when Buffy and Willow appear in the doorway. Behind them, the rest of the potentials have gathered together and are unashamedly staring at the impasse.
“What now?” Buffy’s voice suggests that the de-stressing exercises aren’t as good as Dawn had hoped.
Three voices break into a confused jumble of speech, with Andrew’s name the only recognisable part. Xander watches him fidget under the weight of the words. Flash of egg-yellow bruises, of wide rabbit-eyes and a green towel...
Buffy does the Giles-eyes thing, and Xander watches her clench and unclench her fists for a moment.
“You know what?” she breathes, glancing at the girls, “you deal with it. If you can’t even handle him then what hope do we have?” She turns and stalks out of the kitchen, pushing past the gaggle of potentials that have crowded behind her. Willow casts an imploring glance at Xander, then shakes her head and goes after Buffy. Beside him, Dawn eyes the girls with trepidation, then puts down her glass and leaves without a word.
Potentials to the left of them. Potentials to the right of them. Exhausted and annoyed.
“Andrew? Get in the car.”
*****
Chapter six
*****
He doesn’t speak until the car is halfway down the street.
“You know they’d have ripped you to pieces, right?”
Beside him, Andrew is entirely still, eyes closed and hands clasped tightly in his lap. Xander wonders if he’s heard a single word. He’s about to try again, when –
“I know.” Andrew’s voice is a whisper, of the ‘I still can’t believe I’m alive and don’t want to jinx it’ variety.
He wants to be mad. He wants to yell at Andrew for making Buffy mad, and for pissing off the potentials who certainly don’t need anything else to worry about right now. He just doesn’t know where to start. Andrew’s probably spent the whole day cooking meals and dividing them into microwaveable portions, thinking it’s a helpful, thoughtful thing to do. Which it probably is, Xander decides. It’s just… they didn’t ask for help. They’re supposed to be strong and independent and all Amazon-like, and that means no help from men. Especially boys who get scared by raised voices and prefer wielding a spatula to a stake. That’s not what Slayers do. Or it’s not what potentials think Slayers should do. Not that he can explain any of that to Andrew.
“They’re scared,” he says instead. “They don’t know what they’re doing, they can’t keep up with what’s happening and they can’t admit that to Buffy.”
“But why does everyone take it out on me?” Xander hasn’t heard that whine in a couple of days. It’s not pleasant. In fact, it’s kind of adding to his headache. Andrew folds his arms, and Xander’s certain that if he were standing, he’d be stamping his foot too.
“Because you’re the closest thing they’ve got to a real, physical bad guy right now.” He’s only guessing, but it sounds pretty plausible, so he decides to stick with the theory. The potentials can’t fight the First, and they can’t fight Buffy, so they go for the easiest options: fighting each other and Andrew.
“But I’m helping!” Andrew pouts, unfolds his arms, then folds them again out of sheer frustration. “I don’t deserve this!”
“You’re a hostage!” Xander’s head is threatening to pop again, and the only thing stopping him from turning around and dropping Andrew on Buffy’s front porch again is those damn hunted eyes that flash in his memory at the worst possible times. He has to know he’s doing the right thing: has to know he can’t let them cross the line.
“But I’m good now,” Andrew continues, turning in his seat to face Xander. “I’m helping. I’ve abandoned the Obsidian Order and I’m decoding messages for Starfleet. What more do they want from me?”
He can’t hold back a sigh. It’s all he can do not to close his eyes, to try and shut out Andrew’s pleading expression. Instead he fights to keep the car steady, pressing a little harder on the gas pedal.
“I know you’re trying,” he tells his passenger, who waits expectantly for his advice, “but they don’t need a chef. We’re talking about the end of the world here, Andrew, and you can’t fight that with cookies.”
They watch the road in silence. The wheels hum over the asphalt.
“Um, where are we going?” Andrew asks, after almost a whole minute’s peace.
Xander sighs again.
“I’ve had a day and a half at work. I need to shut down. I want TV and carbohydrates and canned laughter.” He tries to imagine himself stretched out on his couch with a beer and a bag of chips. Then wonders if he has any beer. Or chips. Or food of any kind that doesn’t require any effort. He draws a blank. “I’m going home.”
Which turns out to be an adventure by itself, because as Andrew chatters on about what’s on TV, he spots the video store and decides instantly that a film will be much better than anything television has to offer tonight. Xander’s in no mood to fight any more, and he allows himself to be led inside, where the fluorescent lights buzz like wasps and hurt the insides of his eyes.
They argue because Xander’s already seen ‘Spiderman’ and doesn’t think it stands up to repeat viewing. They argue about whether ‘Freaked’ is really science fiction or just gross-out comedy. Then they team up and argue with the clerk who thinks Alice Krige was a better villain than Ricardo Montalban. Xander thinks if it weren’t for the headache, it might be the most fun he’s ever had while fully clothed.
Not the arguing, which makes his head throb, and certainly not listening to Andrew’s petulant whining, but being around somebody who gets it. Willow tries: she can tell the difference between Doctor Zimmerman and the EMH, and she agrees with Xander’s theory that ‘Space Precinct’ was just a way of using up left-over alien suits, but she’s not cut out for ‘Outer Limits’ marathons or discussions about subtext in ‘Farscape’. Buffy doesn’t pretend to care, and Dawn stopped thinking it was cool the moment she started crushing on Spike.
Xander finds himself wondering what it must have been like to hang out with Jonathan and Warren in Nerd Central. Before Warren went psycho, of course.
They eventually make it back to the apartment bearing Doritos and a copy of ‘Thumb Wars: The Phantom Cuticle’, which the clerk highly recommended. Xander’s certain it was just to get them both out of his store, but Andrew seemed okay with it so he doesn’t complain. Andrew is still yammering on about Lucas-parodies past, and how this one has to be better than ‘Spaceballs’. He asks questions and never waits for answers. Kaleidoscope, Xander thinks. Why won’t it stop turning?
While Andrew sets up the tape, he gulps down painkillers with a glass of water and realises he hasn’t eaten since lunch. Better find something soon, or he’ll end up paying for it.
He pulls off his shoes and leaves them by the door, then joins Andrew on the couch. Andrew doesn’t complain when he snatches away the bag of Doritos and makes an eager start on its contents.
The headache is long gone by the time the movie ends. When he feels a guilty pang at the thought of bailing on Buffy and Willow, he consoles himself with a reminder that he’s still helping, in a way. Andrew is here, relaxed and still giggling, instead of there, whining and getting underfoot. The guilt disappears.
“Steve Oederkerk is my god,” Andrew breathes, and giggles some more. Xander can’t help smiling. He watches Andrew get up and put the tape back in the box. The guy doesn’t look like he’s about to run anymore, or pout, or burst into tears. He seems happy. Xander made him happy. He wonders if that will make up for the bruises.
*****
tbc
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Date: 2003-05-13 08:48 am (UTC)