Entertaining Mr. Fett
"Did he damage it?"
Warren tilted the figure this way and that, playing all the shadows into the light before he was satisfied that the vampire had done little more than lay fingerprints on its surface. He shook his head and put it carefully back on the shelf, settling it behind other figures, as though to prevent any further interest coming from unwelcome parties.
"We have to look into that uninvite ritual - I don't care what Jonathon says."
"I checked it out already. No big, we just waft a few crosses around and repeat after me."
"That's crucifixes, dork."
Andrew shrugged and scribbled the note on the board. "Whatever. Just check out Jonathon's trove. He's got enough to repel all of Sunnydale's finest."
"Sure, that's fine. And when Spike breaks in next time we just show him the pretties until he goes away. Or burns us down. Can you imagine the hellfire Mom's gonna give if we're sitting in ash?
Andrew looked at the ceiling, waiting for the familiar schlub of her slippers to pass overhead before speaking again. It was all down to timing; she never did anything on the moment. Three more seconds and...
"Dude, your mom's packing heavy this year. Too much holiday cheer?"
"Sure." He settled the pen back in its place and turned back to Andrew with a grin. "Halloween candy, turkey...she's all up there with the cheer."
Andrew glanced up again, daring the ceiling to creak, totally missing Warren sliding a little closer. Not that he'd notice anyway. Because, hello, Warren, partner in crime and future master of the underworld. Or Overworld. No one seemed particularly sure right now. By the time Warren's hand covered his denims, he'd forgotten what they were supposed to be doing in his basement. Fingertips brushing over his thigh and Andrew bit down on the urge to look round for Jonathon.
"Warren?"
"You know, the key factor in that speech is 'up'."
Closer now, hands rubbing with the faint consciousness of one who knows they really shouldn't be doing this right now. And all Andrew can really think about is that this isn't listed on the board, and man, would he really like to tick it and then trade it off against the "get girls" commandment. Warren's hand squeezing his leg and he's unsure if "gyah" is a word, but it's all that wants to come out of his mouth. But he's cool, he knows what's the thing here, and he has a whole load of big words to use on any occasion.
"Er, up?"
Warren wearing something close to a new DVD expression, fingers curled round Andrew's thigh, thumb rubbing along the inside seam and making all kinds of nerve endings go kablooey.
"Up there. As in 'not here'. As in we have a half hour before Jonathon gets back with the pizza and let's not waste it."
Barely there gap and a whole whoah factor, Andrew wondering whether it's possible for a patch of skin smaller than his hand to be screaming out with "touch me" vibes. He's sure, he's positive that they have to learn to get some serious alone time and considers mentioning that all he really needs is ten minutes, brain tries to kick in and he's back to non words again.
"Warragh?"
"Relax."
He can't. He'd really like to, but Andrew can't, and not just because his friend is currently stroking scary dangerous places that no one else has laid more than an inconsequential hand on. There was a time when he'd considered paying for this kind of attention, still does. But Warren's only a little less fucked up and all he really wants to do is beg for more.
He shifts a little, knocking things off the chair and tries not to think what Jonathon's going to say when he finds their route map crushed into non-symmetric folds. Hand coming down and flailing generally over Warren's, trying to press down and say "hey, here, zipper is here" without actually vocalizing it, and Andrew decides that for definite, he needs to find something that gives him the ability to channel Barry White. Sometime when he's got a moment. Or a few minutes. Some time that isn't now.
"Gyah...zipper?"
Warren doesn't seem to hear and in the unblemished and cheery id, Andrew growls "want now". Reality's a little less than satisfying, because he wants to kiss, wants to go with all that Frenchness he's heard about from people who do. He wants to be a doer, wants to grr and groan and just grab Warren's face and go for the smooch, but that requires knowing what you're doing. He's not just there right now.
Warren is. Warren with the girlfriend that was and the girlfriend that wasn't. He knows about stuff, although Andrew's pretty sure he didn't add on a gender ambiguity clause in the whole build-your-own-sex-life. Hard against fingertips, and Andrew gurgles when Warren strikes gold. Reaches out his own hand to try and touch, but Warren's way ahead of him and presses forward for the kiss. Misses, what with the stubble and the whole tongue thing going awry, strike one for Captain Suave. But Andrew's still there, tongue flickering out and waiting to taste, waiting to get that all in and see what it feels like to be groped and smooched and all in the name of lust in the suburbs.
Sudden burst of confidence and hunger and Andrew reaches out, pulling Warren to him, fingers curling round his ears and landing the kind of kiss he's dreaded would happen if he got the chance. All blunt teeth clashing and lips mashing, but it's only for a second. And then it's just fine, tongue slipping in, slow and easy, that jaw action that makes him think of chewing meat, (and there's a fine consideration for later) and he's done it. Kissing Warren with Warren's hand rubbing him all the right way, and Andrew is a god.
Kissing goes on just less than long enough, his hand searching out good places to touch on Warren, reciprocated and bringing more than just a smile to his face. He's keen he's eager and he's raring to go, and when the door creaks, Andrew took a second or two longer than he should before they broke apart and made like the only thing that happened here was two guys having a world dominating conversation. Business as usual.
Warren raised a hand to acknowledge the pizza boxes, tossing one over to Andrew to cover his burgeoning erection. Greasy slices of pepperoni and pineapple slithered in his hands and Andrew's back, raising nothing more than a "you were fast, man" to Jonathon, casually regarding Warren with eyes that saw him and really saw him. They were cool, they were chilled and back to hanging out with the whiteboard. And it's a whole hour later when Warren tells Jonathon about the pre-sale in the Workshop, watching as his eyes light up and he makes his excuses, leaving them both in the questioning dark. Andrew smiles before leaning over and offering Warren more than just his cheesy crust.
Because even evil super villains deserve a Merry Christmas.