No Number 5
Pocketing his cell phone, Lorne reached for the pile of letters in the hands of his assistant. "Bills, bills, bills. Doesn't matter where you go, the bills follow you, but that's what we pay evil accountants for." Dumping the paperwork back into the assistant's fumbling hands, Lorne studied the plain brown box that was left.
Andrew suddenly stopped helping Lorne's assistant, who was not only juggling the mail, but also trying to answer a cell phone. He eyed the brown box like it was his soul now in the hands of a green god. Lorne raised an eyebrow.
"Hum a few bars."
Andrew hummed, nothing coming out but something vaguely amphibian-like. Clearing his throat, Andrew let the tune loose.
"Cantina Band."
Andrew pepped up, tried not to bounce but did anyway. "I feel a strong attraction to the hero's tale." Truthful and topical. This was it; his big break.
"Aspirations of following in the footsteps of Spike Lee and Tarantino? Sorry, not this spin of the wheel." Andrew felt the floor swallowing him, but there was Lorne's arm holding him up. "Pop-tart, pushing the tales of the slayers is showing me that your heart is in the right place even if it took a detour on the dark side of the force."
"But-"
"Heck, you've come to the right place for reforming evil, but your destiny lies elsewhere young Jedi. And wow, that uses up my sci-fi quotient for the rest of the year." Patting Andrew on the back, Lorne pulled out his cell phone as he tossed the unopened package back on the top of the mail cart. With the phone already at his ear, Lorne paused as he was about to rush away. "Keep at it kid. You'll run into destiny, or it'll run into you, more likely."
"But..." The objection was quiet, half-hearted and falling on deaf ears.
With a dejected sigh, Andrew pushed the mail cart closer to the executive wing. Movies were not the only opportunity around here. But if Lorne actually watched the tape, Andrew knew that he would change his mind. Right, new plan. Insert tape into Lorne's VCR while the demon was out.
Speaking of demons...Andrew slowed down as he passed the offices of Mr. Gunn and Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. Andrew had other skills that could be of interest to the head of Research & Intelligence. Of course, said head wouldn't know that because he never seemed to be in his office. Sighing his frustration, Andrew packed his demon summoning pitch away and pushed the cart forward except for the part where it didn't actually move.
"Watch it, Number 6!"
Andrew froze, not due to Harmony's unrelenting glare, but from the title, epithet, whatever. No movie making, no demon summoning and apparently his skills for mail delivery were substandard, at least compared to the guy who used to have the job.
"We-llll?" There was something about Harmony's tone, like she was expecting him to apologize for existing, just like high school.
"I'm sor-"
"Where's the package?"
Erasing this day would be good. Warren would have come up with some kind of trans-dimensional ray gun to do that but, all in all, not of the good and Andrew was striving for the good. There was also a concerted effort being made to be competent. Keeping an eye on the CEO's mail was part of that, so he knew there were no packages for Angel. "Package?"
Pausing in the middle of buffing her nails, Harmony looked at Andrew in disbelief. "The mail room called. You have a package for Spike."
"Harm, ease off my man Andrew." The firm slap on his back knocked all the wind out of Andrew. While regaining his breath, he marveled at the sudden brotherly affection with which Spike was massaging his neck. "Andrew and I go way back, don't we, Andrew."
Breathing was hard, and not just from the affectionate pat between the shoulder blades. There were little expectations and daydreams that Andrew never expected to have met, and among those were Spike's fingers doing anything nice to any part of Andrew's body. Even with his brain firing on half its cylinders, Andrew was having a hard time believing the tale Spike was spinning. They hadn't been exactly buddy like, well, ever. Since Andrew had started working at W&H, there had been a large quantity of indifference emanating out of Spike. Still, there was something pleading in Spike's face -- something that said he needed Andrew's help. Or perhaps something that said, Go along with this or I'll snap your scrawny, breakable neck.
Nodding, Andrew smiled. "Yeah, Spike and I used to run missions for the slay-"
"Right. I'm in a rush, so I'll be taking that package that was sent to me."
"NO!" Harmony probably didn't even consider the vamp strength, as she knocked Andrew on his ass, putting her body between the mail cart and Spike. From his vantage point on the floor, Andrew took a moment to look past Harmony's legs and appreciate the fit of Spike's leather pants, formfitting without being too tight, flat-fronted no pleats. Carson would approve of the fit.
"Harmony." Rolling his eyes at Spike's ingratiating tone, Andrew got comfortable. Everyone in the office knew that Harmony was a pushover for whatever line the blond wonder was feeding. Life was feeling much safer down on the floor, but that security was fleeting, as Andrew had to quickly dodge a set of high heels.
"Don't you try to sweet talk me, Spike. Do you know how long it took for the swelling to go down from my bleeding eyes last time I listened to you?" Resolve from Harmony? There was a good chance it wouldn't last, but Andrew took the reminder to heart. In his own quest for independence, he had recognized that he could be more assertive.
Spike's face was looking wounded, needy. It wasn't difficult to understand why Harmony might cave, but since she was currently grabbing Andrew by the shirtfront and pulling him to his feet, Andrew was betting that she was probably holding firm.
"Andrew, the president of this company has decided that mail that involves Spike should be treated like hazardous waste, or hazardous mail, or...something."
"Harmony, it's got my name on it. He's gotta to deliver it to me."
Now both of them were looking at Andrew. He was in charge. He had the power, and it really didn't matter that the two vampires in front of him could have shredded the mail, the cart and him without even breaking a sweat. Deciding what to do with the power was a completely different thing. A thing that could lead to unemployment or broken bones. Smiling to try and diffuse the situation didn't seem to be actually diffusing anything. For better or for worse, Andrew made a choice.
"It's the one on top, Harmony." Andrew found his feet as Harmony suddenly let go, giving Spike a smug look as she headed back towards Angel's office.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Spike gave Andrew a look that could kill. Or maybe it was killer good looks, Andrew wasn't entirely sure.
"Right. That was rather spineless of you, Andrew. Now I'll have to shag the bint to get the box."
"Shag? To get the box?" Andrew blinked and then blinked some more, as stuff ripped through his brain, leaving no recognizable pattern, except that it felt kinda good. Alternate plans started forming in his mind, but then he reminded himself that daydreams were probably better left unrealized.
"Well it's not like I couldn't do with a nice bit shagging, but she's all her own woman now. There'll be talking and that other touchy feely crap."
"Oh." Andrew nodded in understanding except he didn't, quite, but he knew he was expected to. "Oh!" Suddenly remembering that he actually had a plan, Andrew reached into the lower level of the cart and pulled out a brown box, verified the address, and then spun it so that Spike could see the hand written name.
At first there was no reaction and then a slow smile spread across Spike's face. Infectiously, it spread to Andrew's. "That box has my name on it. What did you give to Harmony?"
"An inspirational tale of the heroes of Sunnydale." Sudden filled with more confidence, Andrew added, "A ragtag crew of survivors that stick together."
Spike ran his tongue along his lower lip. Andrew wasn't entirely sure why that was so captivating, but it was. "Come on, mate; we've got some work to do."
They were in Angel's Viper. There should have been questions about where they were going and what exactly they were going to do with the box, but Andrew didn't ask them. He was fairly certain that the box theft was going to cost him his job, possibly land him in great bodily harm, and if neither of those things happened, being an accomplice to the carnapping of Angel's Viper was sure to get him killed. All in all, this was not the safe path that he had chosen, but back in Sunnydale he'd learned a few things about choosing the safe path.
Besides, Viper. The word rolled through Andrew's mind in that same breathy, sex-needy voice that he'd only used for X-wing fighters and X-Men, number 1, before. Besides, he was on this adventure with Spike, which filled his imagination with things that he knew were never going to happen.
"What's the plan?" It was out of Andrew's mouth before he could lose the courage to say it.
"Plan?" Spike frowned, giving the impression that there was no actual plan, but Andrew was a man of faith. Clearing his throat, Spike continued. "Right, plan. We find out who's been sending pressies of me and to me."
Andrew nodded; he could see the value in that. He sat attentively on the edge of the seat-the rich soft leather seat with built in warmers. After a few minutes, when Spike hadn't spoken, Andrew caved into the urge to ask.
"So, what's my part?"
"Carry the box."
Relieved that he was already working with the plan, Andrew held the box a little tighter. "Box. I've got the box. What else?"
"That's it."
It was earth language; Andrew recognized that much. They were words he was all too familiar with having offered to help at Buffy, only to be continually told to sit down, stay out of the way.
"There's got to be more. I mean, it's not like the box is heavy, so you need me for other things, too."
"Box might explode or end the world as we know it, if I touch it. Just need you to carry the box."
Crestfallen, Andrew slid back in the seat. This was icing on his day. This was topping every crappy thing the last twenty-four hours or twenty-four days. Not having a role was what had made him finally leave Buffy's rag-tag, not-so-fugitive band of new slayers. It was what had sent him, like so many other hopefuls, to the big city in search of fame and fortune. Heck, even the job in the mailroom--that he was about to lose--played into all those dreams.
And now...man holding a box.
Although the motion was almost unperceivable, the car stopped behind a line of others. Andrew got out, closing the door behind him.
"Andrew-shit!" Involuntarily, Andrew turned around and saw Spike ducking low over the car, which was only partially shaded by a building on the corner. "Andrew, where the hell are you going?"
Everyone in LA was watching. Even people talking on their cell phones were watching, and all of them were mentally trying to shove Andrew back into the Viper--not because it was the right thing to do, but because they didn't want their driving world disrupted by Spike not driving.
"Back to work. I can turn in the box and hope that they don't fire me."
"Get in the bloody car, Andrew." Spike's tone was threatening. Andrew felt threatened, so threatened that he backed into a car that immediately began beeping. Then there was cursing and swerving. The light had turned and Spike was blocking traffic. Taking advantage of the confusion, Andrew made his way to the sunny side of the street, literally. The path back to office was fraught with cool shadows, so he headed the other direction, following the light. The metaphor didn't escape him, but it was kinda Lost in Space, so Andrew tried to ignore it.
"Andrew." Spike had turned the corner with Andrew and was following slowly behind in the car. The necrotized windows were down and Spike was calling from the window.
"If you're chickenin' out, then toss the damn box in the window. Take care of it myself."
"Kinda what you were doing when I was in the car, right?"
"What the hell do you want? Money? Booze? Sex? What?"
The short street was running out and with it, the sunlight. Frustrated, Andrew stopped walking and turned to face Spike, except Vipers were low, so he bent over so he could look through the window.
"I want a purpose. I want to make something of myself. I want people to stop saying, He's no number five, or Look, Tucker's little brother, what's his face. I want my moment in the sun." That was beating the cheesy metaphor over the head, but Andrew was proud that he was actually standing his grounds, albeit hunched over.
Spike sighed, leaning back in the driver's seat, looking at the moon roof. "Sorry. I didn't consider that finding out who's out to wank all over my undead life was part of your grand scheme for finding yourself."
Andrew started standing, looked at the shadow and remembered that he was standing up for himself. "I..." Except Spike did actually have a right to be pissed. He looked away, trying to come up with the right words. "But...uhm, couldn't we do both. I mean, I could help. I have skills."
"This will probably take more than funnel cake." Bored, dejected, it was all over Spike's face and the way his body sprawled in the seat.
"Spike, I read demon languages. I can summon demons. Shar-ton demons can answer questions about the hidden; I could summon one."
"You could do that?" Spike was thinking about it; Andrew was hopeful. "Well, I'll think about it while you get in the car!"
"Ow!" Being dragged through the open window of a viper was more or less as painful as is sounded. Of course, it hurt more as the car proved that it could go zero to sixty in some infinitesimally short time. Struggling not to fall out, Andrew gave into the tugging of Spike's hand and fell the rest of the way into the car.
"Right then. I got a friend of a friend that promised me a favor if I was in town. I do the planning, and you carry the box. Got it?"
"Got it."
The underground bar was seedy and had no fun bottled beverages. Andrew had settled for the water, but was now realizing that asking for the water without sea-monkeys would have been a better choice.
Spike was wheedling and schmoozing. Andrew was bored, hungry, annoyed but holding the box. This was because the only threat that scared him more than bodily harm by automobile was being left in this bar.
"We will have answers for you shortly." The greenish demon stood up, clapping his hands. Blueish attendants stepped out from the wings, robing and anointing the summoner. Despite himself, Andrew started paying more attention, just in case he could learn something new. Except not.
"Shar-ton demon. I never would have thought of that." Spike gave Andrew a glare that made him sink deeper into the hard wood chair. A long line of lights shimmered on the other side of the room and slowly expanded into a man-sized oval opening.
"Of course, if I summoned the Shar-ton, I wouldn't have bothered with the ostantageous glamour or the fake portal. Oh, and I would have actually summoned a Shar-ton and not a Morg with fake horns." Andrew was feeling a bit vindicated by the surprised look on Spike's face. Then he was feeling really scared by the glares from the other side of the room.
"Uhm..."
"Hang onto the box."
Andrew's okay was barely audible, as he fumbled his way out of the chair. He was probably in the perfect vantage point for the fight except that all Andrew could see was a fake Shar-ton barreling towards him. Hiding under tables was a skill that Andrew had learned early days of his summoning, and he put that skill to good use by diving under the nearest one, causing the demon to sail overhead, crashing behind the table. Unfortunately, that was also the direction that the package slid.
Leaving Spike to fight, Andrew crawled his way towards the box and the unconscious demon. Or, perhaps the conscious but dazed demon. With the firm knowledge that Spike was never going to get Andrew out of this place without the box, he grabbed a broken chair leg and started heading towards his quarry.
Just as he was reaching for the box, a growl reached him on hot, fetid breath. In a desperate attempt to make light of the incident, Andrew tried laughing, but that didn't seem to be working. The demon raise a clawed hand to block Andrew's makeshift weapon, but failed. Andrew swung low to knock the box across the room as he scrambled to his feet.
There was a pile of moaning demons getting to their feet and hooves as Spike charged past Andrew. Yanking a gaudy hanging off the wall, Spike snatched up the package without actually laying hands on it.
The world didn't end, but Andrew's foot became trapped in green and scaly hands.
Spike was several steps closer to the door when Andrew's panic had set in so deep that the world began moving in slow motion. It seemed really unfair to have had the opportunity to die gloriously in an apocalypse only to survive and be crunched in scummy LA bar.
The whole world paused as Spike whipped around, black leather swirling behind him. The box was flying towards Andrew, who instinctively fumbled with it as the demon began pulling him down. With the package locked in his arms, Andrew prepared to hit the floor-except it didn't happen. Backing away from the Doc Martin heading towards his head, Andrew was yanked free when the heavy boot smashed the demon's hand.
Spike had saved him.
Contemplating this was immediately difficult as Spike tossed Andrew over his shoulder and steadied the whole arrangement with a firm grip on Andrew's ass. Ass-hand, hand-ass.
"Andrew! Get in the bloody car!"
Andrew was standing in the parking garage again, but wasn't entirely sure how he had gotten there. "Right!" The world returned to normal speed as Andrew threw himself into the car, and it rocketed out of the garage.
About five minutes further down the road, Spike eased the car back onto the main thoroughfare.
"So, you know about demons?"
Looking uncertainly from where he was slumped practically on the floor of the passenger seat, Andrew glanced around like Spike could be talking to anyone else. Clearing his throat, he sat back in the seat.
"Yeah, I was the demon summoning portion of the trio."
"And you can summon Shar-ton demons that answer questions about hidden things?" Spike knew all this. Andrew knew all this, but it was actual communication, verging on a conversation.
"Yeah, I can do that."
"Maybe we should get the stuff you need then-"
"Hold it. Just hold it. You spent the entire morning undervaluing my skills, and I don't even get a thank you for saving you a boatload of cash and favors from that slimy pack of charlatans?" Suddenly, the car swung into an alley and just as suddenly stopped.
"And the part where I saved your life? There a proper thank you for that part?"
Embarrassed, Andrew looked at his feet. "What would be a proper thank you?"
Spike's sarcasm was thick. "Most damsels that don't hold onto the box - their one job - and get rescued anyway usually give me, I don't know, a hanky or a firm kick in the arse. One or the other."
Great. Reminders that he wasn't anything special. Absently Andrew picked at the stamps on the package, lots of QE II - the person, not the boat. "No hankies, and I'm guessing the ass kicking would be a no go." It didn't matter how not special Andrew was, he was going to make this work. "You should use one of my other skills instead."
"Well, what are they?"
"Huh?" It wasn't that Andrew didn't understand the question, but it never seemed like anyone asked. It was much more about Andrew saying, I can do that, and someone else or everyone else ignoring him.
"Skills. Need a detailed list if I'm going to consider you for the position."
"Position?" Now the conversation was wandering into unknown territory.
"Need a minion. I like 'em to have brains." Spike frowned and turned in the seat a bit so he was facing Andrew more. "Well, not strictly true, but it's always nice to have someone working for you that knows his way around a magic book or a Fyral demon.
"Kinda like Angel wanting Wesley around?" Destiny. Lorne said Destiny was the way of the mail cart and it would run into him.
There was eye rolling and Andrew was getting the sense that he wasn't getting it again. Then Spike gave a short laugh. "Yeah, Percy's pretty good with a book, but I'd lay dollars to donuts that Angel keeps him around for other skills."
"Oh." Dejected, Andrew studied the package again. "Oh, you mean the fact that Wesley is like plus twenty on his projectile weapons skill, not to mention the cool James Bond wrist thingy."
"Actually, I was thinking more about his ability to crawl on his knees and suck the entire length of Angel's enormous cock down his throat."
Andrew nearly dropped the package. Actually, Andrew realized that he did drop it. "H-h-how..." There was more to that question, but it wasn't coming out of Andrew's mouth, which was mostly hanging open.
"How does he do it? Like I said, boy's got skills." Spike settled back.
"You-you're making it up. If, and that's a mighty big if, Spike. If Wesley and Angel are, are doing...things, then I'm betting that they didn't put on a show for you." Andrew crossed his arms in front of his chest and tried to put on Willow's resolve face, which he knew from first hand experience could be an intimidating thing.
"Well, not like I actually saw them going at it, but-" Spike was wagging a finger at Andrew. "In the long forgotten past I had personal experience with Angel's-" Andrew put up his hand and squeezed his eyes shut only to open them and see Spike smiling at his expense. "And on top of that, got vamp smelling. There's something going on between the two of them that doesn't involve clothes and doesn't involve-" Spike looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, it might involve weapons."
Of all the disturbing things in this conversation, there was only one part that Andrew felt applied to him, but it was a part better not spoken of. "Right. What was the subject again?"
"Vamps smell a lot of things, Andrew. You got a bigger thing for carpenters or for vampires in monasteries?"
Slamming his head back against the soft leather, Andrew wondered why the universe hated him so much. "You know, you didn't have to drag me along. It would have been easier just to call me Number 6 and leave me back at Wolfram & Hart." Carefully moving his foot around the box, Andrew reached for the door handle.
The lock snapped into place.
Andrew unlocked.
Spike locked it again. "Vamp reflexes, could do this all day."
"You'd get bored."
"Right." Andrew found himself trying to shift his side out of the way of the gearshift when Spike grabbed him. From his vantage point with head in Spike's lap, Andrew decided that Spike was much bigger and more intimidating than he looked. Although, Andrew had to admit that Spike's lap was one of those locations that occasionally occurred in his daydreams, the kind of daydreams where he was locked in the bathroom, relieving...tension. The reality would have been nicer without the gearshift digging into his side.
"So, you interested in the job being my minion?" Spike's hand was taking an exploratory journey down Andrew chest and over his hip.
"That's, uhm, distracting. I, uh, I've only ever been an evil overlord and a collaborator on the side of good. Could you give me a job descript-" Spike's fingers were between Andrew's legs, massaging the inner thigh though the thin cotton of Andrew's khaki's.
"Job description? Right. I give orders; you obey. There will likely be shagging and no talk of that sexual harassment crap that Harmony throws around."
Andrew really had no desire whatsoever to object, to breathe or anything. He had a strong suspicion that the current circumstances were not adding to his image as a strong independent person. In a last ditch effort to save it, Andrew took a deep breath and tried to ask pertinent questions, "Money. I need-ooooooooooooh" Ball fondling - so much better than is sounded and it had always sounded great.
"Think you're good enough to get paid for this?"
"Rent." Andrew was shocked at the actual verbalized thought. "Need to pay the rent, and you don't actually have a job."
"Details. Finally convinced Angel to give me a place to stay. You can kip on the couch."
"Oh." It was all starting making sense to Andrew. It would make much more sense if Spike moved his hand up, just an inch or two. There was a spiritual sensation overcoming every cell in Andrew's body, setting off a tingling sensation across his skin. Universal truths raced heedlessly though his head. Gravity pulled you down, or up or something. Pi was 3.145 cherry, apple, strawberry-rhubarb. 6 x 9 =42. D Summers was probably Dawn.
"Uh, Spike. Isn't Giles from Bath?"
"Considering what I have in my hand, do you think it's a good idea to mention soddin' watchers?" Spike gave a hard squeeze to emphasize the point. Involuntarily Andrew's hips bucked, and he could feel himself getting harder.
"Bath is where the postmark is from on the package, and the return address is from D. Summers, which is probably Dawn, who is staying with Giles."
"Bloody hell."
"Hey!" Andrew was suddenly out of Spike's lap and back in the passenger seat.
"Gimme that!" The box was whooshed off the floor from between Andrew's feet, brown paper flying.
The world didn't end, but Andrew was suspecting that his usefulness on this adventure was coming to a close. Spike was reading out loud from a card with big snowflake on a red velvet background.
Dear Spike,
Happy Christmas - although, I don't get why these people don't say Merry because, you know, Merry Christmas always sounded English to me. Anyway, Merry Christmas and Happy Resurrection. The ghost part sounds cool with the walking through walls, but you probably want to be solid so you can munch snack food and smoke. Anyway, I know it's tough, and I'm sorry that I can't be there to help you.
Since I couldn't be for you there personally, I sent the next best thing.
Love,
Dawn
Rummaging in the package, Spike started pulling out candy.
"Wine gums, jelly babies, buttons, and look at this Black & Green's choccie. Damn, I taught that girl right." Spike was smiling for the first time in hours, but Andrew didn't have much time to think about it as he fielded a Cadbury bar. Andrew looked between the bar and Spike.
Spike hesitated like he might reconsider and then nodded hard at the candy. "Go on. Rag-tag whatever you said before about us survivors hanging together."
Smiling, Andrew pulled off the wrapper and took a big bite.
"Whoa! Slow down a little. Good English chocolate is hard to come by in these parts. Let it melt in your mouth a little."
"I guess with the box crisisover, you'll be rethinking the job offer. So what are you going to do now?"
"Head back, annoy Angel, figure out this Shanshu stuff. But first I'm going to find out what warm Cadbury tastes like." Fingers firmly grasped Andrew's chin and a few moments later, he was forgetting all about the breathing.
Spike's mouth wasn't at all soft, not like a girl's. Well, not that Andrew would know for sure, but he had watched enough epic romances to suspect. It wasn't hard either, at least not at first, but then it steadily became merciless. Spike's tongue was demanding, was of the good--was better than of the good.
And then there were men, with guns. Andrew felt there must be a continuity error someplace, but he was at a loss to find it.
The black clad man in charge touched his earpiece. "We've acquired the target. He's with the mailboy. Package appears to be compromised."
A brief discussion followed concerning the impounding of the Viper for possible magical fallout from the non-magical package, and whether or not Andrew and Spike would be more comfortable traveling in the back of the van. Spike disagreed until faced with the less than reasonable argument of tranquilizer guns.
Andrew was sitting uncomfortably in a side chair envisioning Wesley saying, You're fired. Actually it was worse because Andrew was imagining a hundred variations on the ways that Wesley would fire him.
"Spike, what are you looking for?"
Looking up from where he was sitting in Wesley's chair, Spike shrugged. "Incriminating or embarrassing stuff. Blackmail material. But, Wesley appears to be mostly boring." Spike slapped his hand against the wood surface. "Right, hop up here, pet."
Without thinking, Andrew stood up and walked to the desk. "What would you like me to do?"
"Drop trou and hop on board."
Andrew reached for his zipper and then stopped. "Spike! This is Wesley's office. He'll be here any minute to fire me and to, to- I don't know what he'll do to you, but it can't be good."
Coming around the desk, Spike walked slowly towards Andrew, backing him onto the edge of the desk. "And I suspect that he'll be much less happy if my cock is buried to the balls in your arse. Fits my plan nicely."
"That's a plan? I've planned; that's not a plan!"
"Minions do not question plans." Spike cut off any further argument by grabbing a handful of Andrew--a handful that Andrew felt deserved his whole attention. It was actually hard for Andrew to believe that Spike's mouth on his could be more distracting. So distracting in fact, that Andrew didn't know or care what happened to his pants.
"So, minion, you doubted my crack investigatin' skills concerning his poofiness and the watcher." Andrew had no idea what Spike was talking about. "I give you Exhibit 'A'-or should I say, 'KY'."
"No way! You didn't find that in Wesley's desk."
"Bottom drawer, plain envelope, behind the tissues."
Watching the cap come off was somewhat mesmerizing. It would be cold and Andrew squirmed in anticipation. "That, that doesn't prove Wesley is doing anything with Angel. I mean there's Gunn. Have you ever seen them sitting next to each other, polishing their weapons?"
"You have a dirty mind. Like that. Now say I'm right."
There was a mildly hyper feeling running through Andrew. "Nope, standing my ground." Spotting Spike's eyebrow, Andrew adjusted his elbows on the desk. "Well, sorta speak." Moaning, Andrew fell completely back on the desk as Spike's fingers slid inside.
"Just a few words, pet. Spike, you're right."
Shaking his head, Andrew thrust with his hips, wanting more of Spike.
"Minions don't pick the pace either." Despite his words, Andrew was soon gasping for breath like Spike had pressed the magic button.
"Please!"
"No more of that until I hear-"
"Spike,you'rerightaboutAngelandWesley." Spoken somewhere near the speed of light, Andrew's words were barely coherent.
"There's my minion." Andrew was about to protest the loss of Spike's fingers when they were suddenly replaced by something more substantial.
"Oh God!"
"That's much more respectful." Some of he snark was lost as Spike started to breath hard. Some corner of Andrew's brain felt compelled to wonder if the unnecessary breathing was leftover instinct, or a perhaps just part of method of keeping a hard rhythm. One that was sending jolts of electricity through Andrew's body.
Somewhere in the haze was the feel of Spike's hard muscled chest and arms. Details blurred as Andrew bucked hard, meeting thrust for thrust. Speaking had become impossible, as Andrew listened to random interjections escape Spike, not that he actually remembered any of them two second after they were spoken. All at once, the world went dark, hot, and wet all at once. Andrew was convinced that his senses would never recover. That was until Spike's body stiffened and blunt teeth were sinking into Andrew's shoulder.
Minionhood was looking promising; at least, until a different English accent filled the room.
"Dear Lord, why is it always my desk?"