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Home is Where the Heart Is

 

By spikeNdru, August 2003

 

Post-Chosen

PG

854 words

The Good Ship Lorndrew is leaving port…

 

 

 

Andrew was scared.  Scared and lost.  Lost in more ways than he could count.  Lost in that  *I’m in a strange city and I don’t know anyone and I don’t know where to go and I’ve never really been out of Sunnydale . . . well, except for when I went to “Mehico” with Jonathan, but duh! I was with Jonathan so I wasn’t really alone and I wasn’t really lost ‘cause, hey, Mexico was the goal so it didn’t much matter where in Mexico we were and I am so alone and every time I lov…like someone they go away.  Warren left me!  Jonathan left me!  Well, not so much  left me . . . I killed him, so he really didn’t have all that much choice in the matter, but then I started to really like Anya and she died, and Spike . . . Mmmmm, Spike . . . well, he’s gone, too, and I am so alone and  nobody cares. . . *  kind of way.

 

 

What was he doing in L.A. anyway?  He could have gone to Cleveland with Faith and Principal Wood.  Um, well, no . . . they just sort of took off on their own as soon as Principal Wood was released from the hospital.  Maybe he should have gone to the Hamptons with Kennedy and Vi and Rona—they were setting up a Slayer Training Academy in Kennedy’s summer home.  But . . . he didn’t actually  like  Kennedy or Vi or Rona, so probably not a good idea.

 

He would have liked to go with Buffy and Willow on their road trip to identify the new slayers and send the ones who wanted to be trained to Kennedy’s slayer school, but, well . . . they hadn’t actually invited him to go along and besides, he got seasick and was afraid to fly, so . . . world travel, probably not a good idea!

 

Ditto flying to England with Mr. Giles, Dawn and Xander. . . although he really would have liked to spend more time with Xander.  Xander was nice and funny and really had a way with . . . tools.  Right now, though, Xander seemed to be really uncomfortable around him.  Maybe because he had been with Anya when she died and probably Xander thought he should have done something to save her or that he should have died instead of Anya . . . he  still didn’t understand why he didn’t die.

 

Anyway, Willow gave him the address and phone number for Angel Investigations and so here he was in L.A. and they were supposed to help the hopeless or the helpless or something, and he was pretty helpless and, okay, pretty hopeless, too, but the hotel was all dark and locked (who actually locks a hotel?  Aren’t you supposed to be able to like, check-in or something?) and no one was answering the phone number on the card . . .

 

He pulled the card out of his pocket to check the number for like the umpteenth time.  Maybe he had dialed the number wrong?  Nope.  Same number . . . still no answer . . . and what was that squiggly thing anyway?  A butterfly?  A lobster?  A ghost?  It looked like Mr. Giles had drawn it.  He had to find somewhere to go.  He just couldn’t keep wandering around.  He was tired and hungry and scared and it was getting dark and now he was really getting scared and maybe he should just go back to Mexico but he didn’t want to go alone and he was no good alone.  He liked being a follower, he’d love to be able to follow someone . . . he couldn’t do this alone . . .

 

Andrew found himself back at the hotel, again.  He sat down on the garden bench in the courtyard and scrunched himself up as small as possible so that all the things that go bump-in-the-night wouldn’t notice him.  Tears started to flow as he thought about how he had been all prepared to die fighting to save the world, but he didn’t and now he was probably going to die alone in this stupid dark garden behind this stupid deserted hotel and he wasn’t prepared anymore—he didn’t want to die . . .

 

Andrew let out a high-pitched shriek as a hand gently touched his shoulder. . . a rather large, green hand and OMG, where was a porta-potty when you needed one?  Andrew drew his knees up to his chest and pulled his sweater down over them.  The hand gently patted his shoulder.

 

“There, there, little buckaroo.  You look like you could use a friend.  Anything I can do to help?”

 

Andrew began to sob and felt a pair of kind, loving arms enfold him.

 

“You’re okay now, sweetcakes.  You’re fine.  You’re safe.  Everything’s going to be alright.”

 

Andrew raised tear-stained blue eyes and looked directly into caring, compassionate red ones.  And for the first time in a long time, he believed.  He was fine, he was safe, he was . . . home.

 

 

 

The End

 

 

 

 

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