Title: Done
Summary: Andrew serves a dish up cold.
Rating: R
Type: darkfic
Warnings: Contains violence.

- - - -

He could barely look at her, sometimes. Her hair helped, the flash of red distracting enough to let him unclench his fists and to slow down the pounding of his heart. It was still the occasional curve of her lips, or the inflection of her voice that hit him square in the gut with the memory of that night. Sometimes, he was afraid of her.

Most of the time, he was angry. He had thought he had known hate before, that boiling rage he felt at the kids at school who pushed him into lockers and taunted him in gym. That seemed light years away from this new sensation, the difference between the heat of a thousand suns going off in his heart, and a book of paper matches lit one by one.

He wanted to grab that little witch by the shoulders and slam her into the wall whenever she made some comment about having taken “a life.” It wasn’t just “a life”, it wasn’t just any life. It was Warren’s.

Fortunately, he was experienced in biting back his more passionate impulses. On people like him, overflowing emotion seemed awkward and foolish. Unlike the slayer, for instance, whose beauty and importance lent her a gravitas Andrew sadly…lacked.

He had stopped sleeping months ago. He dreamt about Jonathan, sometimes, but not as often as he would have claimed. Even in is dreams, he was sorry while knowing he’d do the same thing, even knowing what he knew now. It was- in a way- the same feeling he could hear behind Willow’s half-assed expressions of remorse.

Most of the time, he dreamt about Warren, these odd little elseworlds where everything worked out and they lived the rest of their days in hazy happiness on the beaches of Europe. He got tired of waking up fighting back tears and embarrassment, so insomnia came as a comfort.

He took to knocking around Buffy’s kitchen, the only room in the house not littered with girls. He would alphabetize the breakfast cereals, arrange the glasses by color and shape, and on occasion, build little cities out of sugar cubes, only to destroy them with SPOONZILLE and FORKRAH. Anything to keep his hands busy and his mind a million miles away. It was working out well.

But then she had to interrupt.

He stiffened when he heard the padding of feet down the stairs and turned slowly to see Willow, sleepy eyed and smiling in the doorway.

“Hey,” she said.

He smiled his nervous smile and nodded. “Can’t sleep?”

She nodded and sat down on a stool near the island. “Yep. Sleeping isn’t the easiest thing right now- plus, Kennedy kinda snores.”

Willow rested her head in her hand, yawning. She was tired. She was…defenseless. Andrew felt his blood running cold, that eerie feeling he got when Warren’s form had been standing over his shoulder, whispering his future sins into his ear.

But there was no Warren, not even a fake Warren, and there was no excuse- this was him. He glanced out of the corner of his eye, and saw his reflection in the blade of a butcher knife on the counter.

“Oh, God,” he said.

“What?” Willow said.

He glanced back at her and smiled. “Nothing.” He held out the box of cereal he’d been eating. “Froot Loops?”

- - - -

Andrew opened the door of the kitchen and stepped out into the night air. He was halfway across the lawn, when he absent mindedly wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving sticky red streaks.

He didn’t run. He had hours to go before the morning anyway.

Funny how long it takes to know ourselves. He hadn’t realized he loved Warren until he was dead, and he hadn’t realized he was evil until he committed murder- twice.

He knew what would happen. Someone would come down stairs, hearing a drip- drip-drip, and walk into the kitchen, cursing whoever left the tap on. Turning the corner, they would see it, and stand shock still for a moment. Then there would be the scream and all hell would break loose.

It was a shame, really, the only one of them who would understand why he did it, who could ever comprehend why this was necessary, was currently pinned to the wall like a butterfly in pajama pants.

He stared up for a moment at the sky. Warren had it all wrong. The quickest way to Evil wasn’t about plots and schemes; it was about pushing down the dark impulses until even you forgot about them.

And then you strike.

Willow would have understood that too.

They would be after him in a few hours, and they would catch him soon enough. Let them come. He was done here.