jwaneeta

Ronin
Spike, Andrew, Dana, post AtS
R
No spoilers






Spike was grieving. Lost to everything, ready to take a stroll in the UVs, stunned, shocky and overwhelmed. It was just like Beauty and the Beast, the one with Dazzler and the Beast by Marvel, not the shamefully egregious ripoff Disney musical. Andrew tried to explain this distinction to Spike, but Spike didn't seem to appreciate how much cooler Marvel's Beast was.

"But the real Beast, the Marvel Beast circa 1982 as immortalized by Ann Nocenti in a last burst of creativity just before the Revlon buyout, he was just like you. When he lost his team, he lost all will to live. Until a glitter-clad disco superheroine on skates gave him back a sense of love and purpose."

"For the love of Christ, shut up," sighed Spike.

"Courage is what you need. Remember the words of Hurin son of Thurin, at the Nirneath Arnoediad. Channel the spirit of the Edain, Spike. Dawn will come again."

Spike thumbed the volume.

"It's okay. It's jake, dude. Roger with the surly fretfulness, mio hermano, all the way, what with getting your intestines blown out and losing your beloved sexy dominant Sire, and probably cursing the stupid pride that kept you apart until it was too late." Andrew opened his hands. "You're in a safe place, Spike. Let it all out."

Spike heaved himself painfully up from the recliner and went to the bathroom.

Interesting, deeply interesting. Four bathroom visitations in 12 hours. Another Spike anomaly or a new vampiric field observation? Andrew made a note.

When Spike came back 40 minutes later Andrew renewed his attack.

"Spike! I've got an idea! Let's rent a DVD, Spike. Or a game. What do you say?"

"What's say you clear out and look for your bird," muttered Spike, flipping channels.

The very digit on the problem. There was gumshoe Dark Knight detective work to be done, but as Spike had healed and started moving around, Andrew had become less and less easy about leaving him alone. Too many opportunities for the desolate bereaved many-times-dead to make a bad choice. A quandary.

Andrew placed his carefully prepared cup of blood on the coffee table. On a saucer, with a napkin. Then he leaned back.

"I'm dying to check out Maze 4," he said. "It's a challenge like no other, they say."

Spike's eyes slid to the coffee cup. His hand drifted to the bulge under his shirt, grazing the bandages Andrew had renewed, tirelessly, for three days.

"Right," he said softly and at last. "If you like."

As a diversion the game-choosing was quiet. Too quiet. Not a spark of fight in Spike at all, even when Andrew suggested they try a rudimentary bloodless motocross nobrainer, as a test. Spike followed where he was led, and agreed to what Andrew pointed out, and the stunned empty look never left his eyes.

"Have you ever had a Krispy Kreme?" asked Andrew. "It's all the rage."

"Sure, if you like," shrugged Spike.

****

Spike took one stoic bite of his Krispy Kreme, grimaced and laid it aside.

Andrew folded his paper, angling the Valley section obscurely, just to be safe. "Buffy's good," he said.

Bad move. Spike's face dissolved like a sandcastle under a tide, and there was an awkward moment as Spike turned to the window and fought himself into control.

"I can't tell her. I couldn't save him." Spike's voice was steady, but his fingers wandered, shaking, stroking the tablecloth. "She loved him. I can't tell her."

There was nothing to say to that. It was all too complex and beautiful and tragic.

"I never told her about you," said Andrew, instead.

Spike's nervous hands stilled.

"Thanks," he said, without looking.

****

Andrew had been counting on Spike's daze of noble mourning to buy a little creative driving grace, but the fourth time they crawled past a welter of yellow tape and squadcars Spike's eyes narrowed.

"This place is worse than Sunnydale," he murmured, craning. "What the hell's going on?"

****

"You simpleton, you twit, you perfect ass!" Spike was very angry.

"Spike, this task is mine alone. On me the burden falls, on my head lies the --"

"She's gonna twist your head clean off, you demented sod!"

Andrew checked his holster, releasing the flap. "I can handle her."

"Like you did in the alley? For fuck's sake, Andrew, the pair of us together didn't even slow her down."

"Spike, you're staying here. You're wounded in body and personally-acquired soul, crushed by grief at the loss of your beloved companieros. No offense, but you couldn't fight your way out of a wet paper bag."

Spike hissed, face rippling. "Give me one of those guns, Andrew."

Andrew stood his ground. "I fear I must refuse, O seeker of a noble end. I know, Spike, I know. You desire an honorable death at the hands of a worthy foe, like Yagyuu Jubei. You seek to join those who have gone before." He turned away, fumbling pellets into his utility belt, eyes filling. "And it's beautiful. I mean that. But I won't let you do it, Spike, I won't."

"Who's Yagyuu Jubei? Is somebody helping her? Christ, that's all we need."

Andrew wiped his eyes and moved, getting between Spike and the door. "Spike, I must face her alone."

Spike shrugged into his coat and slammed past him into the hall.

****

Spike was waiting in the van when Andrew arrived.

As he slid the key into the ignition Andrew said: "Spike, I know you resent me for interrupting your vampire seppuku. That's okay. But I need to tell you that I find your hostile takeover of my personal mission intrusive and demeaning. I wanted to spare you all this, Spike, and had only the best intentions. I need you to know I feel very underappreciated right now."

"Drive," barked Spike, and Andrew frowned and put the van into gear.

TBC