TITLE: Tucker's Brother
AUTHOR: Jessica Walker
EMAIL: williamthebloody79@yahoo.com
ARCHIVED AT: http://ficbitch.com/addiction (or will be, sometime tonight).
DISTRIBUTION: You want *this*?  ;o)  Sure.  Just let me know.
SPOILERS: Through "As You Were."
COUPLE PAIRING: ::cringe:: Spike/Andrew.  I'm sorry.  I really am.  I, um, I blame society.
SUMMARY: An ex-geek ex-supervillain and a geeky not-quite-supervillian have one too many.  Takes place shortly after Riley makes the crypt go ka-boom.
RATING: NC-17 for drunken homoerotic smut and mild violence.
FEEDBACK: "To coin a popular Sunnydale phrase, 'duh.'"
DISCLAIMER: Joss owns them, even if he's not twisted enough to make them do *this.*
NOTES: I'm kind of an anti-geek in that I'm a total pop-culture retard; I don't get nine-tenths of the references the geeks make on the show, so I'm sorry if I've screwed any of them up here.  Love for the super-betarific Donna, of course, and profound apologies to the world for writing this pairing.  I offer penance.
               
Tucker's Brother
by Jessica Walker
 
------------------------
 
Buffy: Who are you?
Andrew: Andrew. I summoned the flying monkeys that
attacked the high school? During the school play, you
know?
Warren: He's Tucker's brother.
Jonathan: Yeah, he's Tucker's brother.
Buffy/Willow: Ohhh.
 
-"Gone"
 
"Now I get Warren being the supervillainy type, but I
thought Jonathan completely learned that lesson. I
never even *heard* of this other guy."
 
-Xander, "Doublemeat Palace"
 
"The first star you see may not be a star.
I'm not your star."
 
-Something Corporate, "Konstantine"
 
------------------------
 
"Tucker, is that you?"
 
"It's me, Mom."  Andrew appears in the kitchen
doorway, overstuffed bag of laundry noticeably tipping
him to one side.
 
"Oh.  I thought you were your brother."  Mrs. Wells
doesn't look up from the pages of her cookbook. 
"You're home early."

 

Andrew pauses, a bit taken aback.  "I- I haven't been
home in three weeks, Mom.  And Tucker's in
Massachusetts, remember?"
 
"Mm-hm," she replies, spinning the spice rack in
search of the lemon pepper.  Andrew rolls his eyes and
makes his way through the living room.
 
"Just here to drop off your laundry?" booms the voice
behind the evening edition of the Sunnydale
Banner-Herald.
 
"Yeah.  I-I mean yes.  Sir."  He'd had every intention
of doing his own laundry until Warren tried to
"reprogram" the washer last week.  True to his
promise, it washed a load of clothes in 6.95 minutes. 
Then it imploded, and Jonathan's He-Man t-shirt caught
fire.  Andrew suggested summoning a clothes-washing
demon of some sort, if such a thing existed; the idea
was quickly vetoed.
 
Mr. Wells sighs from behind his newspaper.  "Andrew, I
just don't understand why you're so irresponsible. 
Why can't you be more like-"
 
//don'tsayitdon'tsayitdon'tsayit//
 
"-your brother?"

 

Andrew feels his face curl up in an involuntary wince.
 "I-I don't know.  Sir."
 
"You staying for dinner?"
 
At the moment he can't imagine anything more
horrifying.  "No, sir."
 
"Got a date?"
 
Andrew stifles a laugh, glad that his father still
hasn't glanced out from behind the paper.  "No, sir."
 
Warren has a date.  He's actually quite good at
getting dates, although they usually end with the girl
in question throwing her drink in Warren's face and
storming out somewhere between the appetizer and the
first course. They've learned to keep a safe distance
if he comes home with his tie smelling like a martini.
 As for Jonathan... well, ever since figured out how
to make the paragon spell work in hour-long
increments, without all the nasty, demon-ridden side
effects, he's been seeing those Swedish twins again.
 
The only action Andrew ever gets is when he summons
the K'ashbadhi, a gender-nonspecific race of demons
who give amazing head, and there's nothing like being
the geekiest in a room full of geeks to remind you how
downright pathetic you are, is there?  But they
haven't thrown him out of the gang
 
//yet//
 
and they're usually pretty nice to him.  And they've
learned not to mention his brother.
 
"We got another letter from Tucker today," his mother
says cheerfully when Andrew escapes back into the
kitchen.
 
Isn't that nice.
 
"They made him captain of the math team."
 
"That's great," Andrew says flatly, grabbing a coke
from the refrigerator.
 
"And he's dating a cheerleader!  What do you think
about that?"
 
He snickers, choking on his drink.  "I think your
brilliant mathematician is the world's shittiest
liar," he mutters under his breath.  He also thinks
that if Tucker was actually getting laid he wouldn't
have time to write so many goddamned letters.
 
"Hmm?"
 
"Nothing.  I gotta go."
 
"Your laundry's-"
 
Andrew's about ten seconds from screaming.  "I gotta
go now," he says shakily, and bolts out the door.
 
Outside the sky is just fading from blue into deep
black.  He sucks in a deep breath when he reaches the
front porch, his thin chest hitching as if there's not
enough oxygen inside that house.  He reaches into his
pocket, fingering the $50 he took from his mother's
purse, and begins to walk.  Two blocks away from the
house and he can breathe again, three and his hands
stop shaking.  He wonders how long he can borrow
Warren's clothes until he has to cave and go back for
his own.  Ten blocks and he's in a part of town that
small skinny humans just don't go after dark if they
want to keep all their parts.  It's turned into a
ritual, and he walks a little farther every time.  
 
//you don't need their fucking washer and dryer, you
can buy new clothes, you're a fucking supervillain,
you can steal clothes, why do you keep going back
there?  What kind of glutton for punishment are you,
Andrew?  It's all Tucker's fault, anyway.  Tucker and
his stupid letters.//
 
Fifteen blocks and that voice in his head is quieter
but he still feels restless, twitchy, like he's
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