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Oh god, oh god—we're all gonna die!

By spikeNdru, November 2005

Pairing: Spike/Andrew, Andrew POV

Rating: FR15 - Includes sexual exploration, not explicit.

Time Frame: Season 7, between End of Days and Chosen

Length: 2426 words

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Oh god, oh god—we're all gonna die!

 

Everyone's emotions were running on overload and Andrew just couldn't take it any more. It was just too much. He was being bombarded from all directions with like really, really intense stuff and it was making his own fears worse. Andrew snatched up a folding lawn chair and went out to the back yard, where maybe he could get some peace and quiet! The joys of living with many, many teenaged girls were definitely overrated.

Andrew unfolded the chair under the spreading chestnut tree and wished he had his diary journal with him. A lot of times, it helped if he wrote down his thoughts. It was like confiding in another person without having to actually, you know, tell another person and come off all lame and really scared . . .

But it was dark out and if he had his journal, he'd need a flashlight to write in it and then people would know he was out here and that kinda defeated the whole coming-out-here-to-be-alone thing. Maybe it would still work if he just composed his thoughts in his head and pretended he was writing in his diary, uh . . . journal?

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes and pretended he was writing.

 

~*~

“Dear Journal: I'm talking to you 'cause if I'm like dictating stuff, it's not really like talking to yourself and talking to yourself is sort of crazy, but dictating is more . . . professional. So, here's what has been going on. First, there was the sortie to the Vineyard — bad plan, Buffy! On a scale of 1-10, I'd have to give the advance planning on that one a minus . . . something. Not everybody died, so probably not a minus ten, but some people did die and Xander lost an eye and how gross is that? So, at least a minus five factor.

“Then came Faith and another bunch of girls getting blown up — and okay, I sorta wish I'd been there to see that, 'cause it would've been kinda cool to compare to the CGI explosion effects and see how accurate they really are. Off topic, dorkhead! The point is, more people died, and that's bad and really sad. It would probably have been even sadder if I'd actually known them, but I did kind of live with them—comrades-in-arms and all. It was kinda cool going on the recon mission for supplies with Anya, though. Anya is hot—and really funny and the best part of the last week was having the wheelchair fights!

“But the worst part of all was the night they threw Buffy out of her own house! I mean, if they could tell her to leave, they could tell any of us to leave, and I don't think I could make it on my own. Not with The First and the Bringers and that Caleb guy and who knows how many of those Ubervamps out there and almost everybody is gone but us and I don't even have a car and I wish Jonathan was here!

“Okay, deep breath! Not thinking about Jonathan now, 'cause I'll probably see him soon enough anyway 'cause we're all probably gonna die. Well, maybe not Buffy, and probably not Spike, but the rest of us probably will. Unless Willow could come up with like a teleportation spell or something and just sort of make us all be somewhere else—somewhere safe—but she hasn't been much with the kick-ass mojo lately, so that's probably not gonna happen. But I bet Darth Rosenberg could of done it! Not like she would, though. She seemed to be more into wanting to kill us than save us.

“So, anyway, then Spike split to go find Buffy, of course, but he left me here with the rest of them and then everybody started having sex! They so were! And they weren't even trying to hide it! That's how I knew that I wasn't the only one who knew, that they all knew, too, that we're all gonna die. Oh god oh god we're all gonna die!

“Faith and Principal Wood were up in Buffy's room, and you could totally tell what they were doing, 'cause Faith's pretty loud and she sort of kept up a running commentary and I never knew that you could do so much with, um, other body parts! And there was a lot of moaning and slurping coming from Willow's room, so I thought I'd go downstairs and see if maybe there was a Hot Pocket left that Faith hadn't found first, since she was occupied and probably not going to be eating Hot Pockets real soon, what with all the other stuff she was apparently putting in her mouth. So, I went downstairs, figuring the kitchen would be safe, but Xander and Anya were in the kitchen and it was really sort of sweet. I didn't want to disturb them, 'cause out of everybody? I think I like Xander and Anya best. Well, except for Spike. But I'm not sure I like Spike.

“It's more like he's sort of my hero. He's strong and brave and he cares about people, although he doesn't want you to know that he cares, but he does. And he's got this really dry wit—I've even seen Mr. Giles snicker at stuff Spike says, but he tries to hide it. Mr. Giles, that is—not Spike.

“So, the valiant, one-eyed carpenter and his lovely, plucky lady-love were drawn back to each other like . . . like magnetic velcro. They had tried to fight their attraction, with sarcastic quips and pretended indifference, but in the end, they—like Lucretius of Borg—discovered that: Resistance is Futile. Sigh. It was so romantic. But I'm not sure if that means they're really back together, although they so belong together—they're just perfect for each other—or if it was a final moment of sharing the love they could no longer deny because they knew we're all gonna die.

“So, anyway, I came out here, like I did tonight, because with all that going on—and I didn't go in the basement; I didn't even want to know what the potentials were doing down there—I was feeling really lonely and missing Jonathan and Warren a lot. Although I really haven't felt the same about Warren since he left me and Jonathan to go to jail by ourselves, and instead of coming back to break us out so we could all go to Mehico together, he came back to try to kill Buffy and then when Willow killed him he came back as The First and made me do bad things and I really don't think he cared about me at all. Not like Spike! Warren was just a selfish little dweeb with delusions of grandeur in the end. But Spike . . .

“Forced to become a killer by the infusion of vampiric blood, he fought against his destiny and rose above it. He fights against his inner nature to help keep the world from sliding into darkness, because it is the right—the only—thing he can do! And, um, also because I think he and Buffy have something going on. For love of the delicate beauty who was Chosen to fight against the Armies of Hell, he has denied his inner nature to be good for her sake. I'm pretty sure Spike is in love with Buffy, but I don't know how she feels about him, 'cause she really doesn't share stuff like that with me. Maybe that's because I used to be evil, or 'cause she's been so busy doing the General stuff—those boring motivational speeches take up a lot of time—but she and I are not confidants, like Spike and I are, ever since the road trip. Okay, retcon! Remember when I said the wheelchair fights were the best part of the week? Well, they were pretty cool, and Anya is a real charmer, but the very best part was when Mr. Giles assigned Spike and me to go on a reconnaissance mission to the Mission . . . does that make it a Mission mission? And I got to spend time with Spike and we totally bonded. So, although Buffy needs Spike for her plans, I don't think she cares about him—not as much as I do, anyway. It seems like he's just a weapon to her. She's always saying he's her best fighter and she needs him, but I don't think she really loves cares about him as a person. Not like I do, anyway. Oh, I'm sure she's noticed his strong, yet lithe, manly body, and his washboard abs, and electric blue eyes, knife-edged cheekbones, and firm, yet soft, lips. I mean, she's been preoccupied, but she isn't blind! But she doesn't seem to . . . need him as a person. And I don't understand that at all! I mean, Spike would die for her, and she's just all lalala. It makes me hurt for him and feel all bad inside when I see the way she treats him. Oh, sure, she did go rescue him from The First and all, but still . . . if he ever looked at me, the way he looks at her, with his heart in his eyes . . .

“Okay, not going there. I know he'll never, never be interested in me. He's a hero—a Champion—and he deserves a hero for a partner, and no one could ever call me a hero and I don't think he even knows I'm alive, especially when she's in the room, but if things were different, I'd treat him a lot better than she does! And now, I'm starting to cry, and I don't even care! It's just so sad. And I really, really hope that when he went out to look for her, that he found her and that they had sex like everybody else, except me, because if we're all gonna die, at least then he'd have the memories of a last, perfect night with his true love to sustain him, like Anya and Xander. And I don't think I could stand it if he died, or if he didn't die, but we all died and he was left all alone, never knowing how it felt to be truly loved. Going to your death, never having felt the gentle caress of the one you love above all else . . . it's not fair! And I know I'm gonna die a virgin, never having that myself, but Spike isn't like me. He's special. He's a hero, and he deserves . . .”
 

~*~

Andrew broke down into incoherent sobbing, unable to continue. For once in his life, it wasn't about him. He wasn't crying for himself; he was crying for Spike. Andrew drew his knees up to his chest, clasped his arms around them and began to sob in earnest. He couldn't help it—didn't think he could stop if he tried. The tears continued to well up from somewhere deep inside as he cried for Xander and Anya, for all the young girls—especially Dawn—who wouldn't have any better chance at life and love than he would, and especially for Spike. And he didn't care if anyone saw him or thought he was a big wuss, because the feelings were real. Sadness. Regret. Fear—okay, mind-numbing Terror. Longing. They were real feelings, and he didn't know any other way to express them.

Andrew felt a gentle hand touch his head and he jumped, opening his mouth to scream, when he saw who it was.

“S-spike . . . what are you doing here?”

Andrew scrubbed at his eyes, trying to erase the traces of his tears, which was kind of silly, because Spike had vampire sight and hearing and hadn't he just decided he wasn't ashamed of his feelings?

“I just came out for a smoke, and I heard you . . .”

And then Andrew felt a hand—

There's a hand—a hand that isn't mine—down there!

—pulling down his zipper and reaching through the flap opening of his BVDs—

Ohmigod! He's touching my penis! He's actually touching my penis and I don't care if I die right this minute! In fact, I think I might die right this minute!

Spike dropped to his knees beside the lawn chair and—

Lips! Soft, cool lips! Lips of Spike! Lips of Spike are on my penis and ohgod! Don't let me die now! If you let me die right this minute I will never, ever forgive you! I don't care if you kill me later but not right now! And . . . ohgod! What is he doing? There's tongue, and teeth sort of scraping and that feels impossibly good and how can such a cool mouth feel so incredibly hot and ohgodohgodohgod! I think I'm gonna come and his mouth is still there—should I tell him? I don't think I can speak—unless those whimpering sounds are me and they probably are and . . . ohgod!

Andrew shuddered and came.

He's not pulling away all disgusted or anything, he's — ohgod that tongue!

Andrew fell back against the lawn chair and it tipped over. Andrew lay on the damp grass on his back, legs waving in the air. He felt strong hands lifting both him and the chair, restoring it to its original position. The same hands tucked him back inside his pants and closed the zipper.

“Spike?”

Spike met Andrew's eyes, but Spike's eyes had a soft, unfocused look, as if he were viewing another time and place. His voice was low and compassionate. “No one should have to die a virgin, if it's not by choice. No one.”

Spike got to his feet, reached into the pocket of his leather duster and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled deeply, tipping back his head as he exhaled a plume of smoke toward the sky. He looked down at Andrew, who was staring at him in wonder.

“An' if you ever tell anyone about this, I'll rip your head off an' kill you myself.”

Spike glared at Andrew, but the corner of his mouth twitched, as if he was trying not to smile. Then, with a swirl of black leather, he was gone.

I'll never tell anyone. I'd never tell anyone anything you asked me not to tell. I wouldn't do that to you. And, Spike? Thank you. I'm still scared, but I think maybe I can go into the final battle now and at least try to be a hero. Like you.

 

The End

 

 

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