Lil Ficlet: The Many Men of Andrew Wells
Title: The Many Men of Andrew Wells
No ship.
Andrew, post-AtS series, tries to date.
Quick beta from i_warren. Please help. Write the next part.
All Dawn Summers’ idea, for the record. Andrew was completely content to just martyr himself to nightly evening mass at the Church of Quake II, eating chips and tartar sauce until he exploded with fatness. Maybe he’d actually able to fit into his grey suit, if he kept it up through the rainy season.
To which, once postulated, Dawn said no. Probably so she wouldn’t have to hear Andrew talk about the hacks he downloaded or the Glitch That Was Ruining His Life. She refused to let it go, too, suggesting places to go, people to meet, clothes with which he was to lure potential victims… Andrew started to feel like he was Dawn’s Ken doll.
Plus, it didn’t work. Andrew tried: he stopped wearing t-shirts out to dinner, bought new sneakers, got his hobbit hair trimmed up. Everything. But there were no dates. No crushes. Nary a mobile number exchanged. Just the endless weekly parade of being a slightly gay, completely sexless and partially-redeemed ex-supervillain: standing up to work people, playing Quake, guiltily downloading Internet porn, deleting it the next morning and, Wednesday’s movie night with Dawn.
Finally, she upped the ante by tricking him. Andrew didn’t realize it until Dawn got up to dance to her favorite song and didn’t come back. Leaving him with Miles.
Miles: 27. Red-haired. Irish. Not from Ireland, though. From Cleveland. Didn’t get irritated when Andrew asked why he didn’t just admit to being American. Didn’t get prickly when Andrew asked why he was trying to get “back to his roots” in England, then, and not Ireland. Bought Andrew a soda, but didn’t ridicule him about not drinking beer or cider like everyone else.
When Dawn came back an hour later, Andrew was still struggling to answer the very simple question of “when did you come out?” Miles came out when he was 25, it seemed, shortly after his girlfriend at the time cheated on him with another girl and he realized he didn’t really care. Since then, he’d just been enjoying the lifestyle. Back in the states, he’d go to mixers, meet people through a gay and lesbian book club, and he even got so desperate (he said) that he put out a personal ad.
He smiled when Andrew said he couldn’t ever do that - that he’d feel too lame and that the ad would probably just attract sicko perverts.
“Hey, don’t knock it. That’s why I’m here. Your friend Dawn put an ad out for you and pre-screened me. She said that you were having a hard time meeting people… and I can see why-“ Miles said, nudging Andrew’s elbow with his glass of beer.
Andrew flinched and thought Because I’m ugly, because I have a reputation, because it was only that one boy and he died, and because the only other person that I might have been okay with, I stabbed, because I don’t know how to talk to you or anyone else, because I don’t know what I want.
“You’re shy,” Miles concluded. “But that’s okay, because I used to be shy, too.”
Miles wasn’t a sicko pervert. Miles, actually, was a pretty nice guy. He didn’t know anything about video games, though. Or D&D. He liked hip hop and something called “jungle” that Andrew wasn’t clear on. He had a computer, but he was running Windows XP on it and it was full of viruses. Maybe Andrew would maybe he’d want to come over, help him with his computer and watch a movie or something?
Andrew said okay, but what he meant was “I’m not very good with computers.”
Hanging out for a tech support date was awkward. Which was not a shock to Andrew, Dawn or Miles. Andrew didn’t know what to wear. Everything in his closet suddenly looked too gay. And here he was going to go hang out with a Gay Guy, who used to be shy, and who needed help with his computer. There were no appropriate clothing choices for Andrew’s new identity.
SWM, 22, curious, shy, on work visa, enjoys technology, mysticism, gaming. New to London. Tour guide? Tea? More? Contact Postbox #92999
He brought Miles a tin of Earl Grey and a burned CD of some computer games, figuring that at least he’d try and be that guy in the ad. The guy who wanted a tour guide and enjoyed tea. The guy who was looking for friends. Miles’ computer, however, wouldn’t run any of the games. Something about the video card being too slow and there not being enough RAM. Andrew didn’t completely understand it, because they worked on his computer, so it must be something wrong with Miles’. There were many problems with said computer, which was obvious when Andrew sat in front of it, staring blankly. Pop-up ads bleated up on the screen as soon as he reached for the keyboard. And he couldn’t get SP2 to download. Trying to think, so he could at least do the one thing he committed to doing by coming over to some strange American Irish guys’ flat, he downloaded and ran SpyBot. He’d seen Willow use that. He mumbled something about registries and clearing the cache on Internet Explorer, to which Miles said he should just go ahead and have at it. Other than deleting the cache and cookies on IE, though, he was stumped.
When SpyBot stopped running and Andrew got a gander at what kind of sites had installed all that spyware on Miles’ computer, he didn’t know where to look. Miles played DJ for a while, made them some tea and asked if Andrew would be into watching some TV. There was a couch involved. Andrew eyed the sofa suspiciously and said that he wasn’t sure what Miles expected, but that he wasn’t sure if he was ready to watch movies. At this point in time. In fact, he kind of had to get back so he could take care of something at his place. Miles looked a little confused, and maybe a little bit sad, but he gave Andrew a stiff, one-armed hug and said it was okay.
The next guy was Jamie. Andrew read his ad before meeting him, as Dawn’s gig was up and she was fine with involving him in the screening process. Although she still didn’t understand what was wrong with Miles. Andrew said he was nice, and friendly, and smelled a little like Oil of Olay.
Dawn shuddered and read off Jamie’s ad: “’Musician. Age 24. 6’2. Uncu-uncommon …uh, abilities. Looking for blond, curious and friendly buddy to go to shows with. Musical talent a plus.’ So, I was thinking with your summoning stuff and love of the didgeridoo…? Eh? You think? Perfect for you, right? I met him for coffee. He’s really cute.”
The thing is: Andrew didn’t like the didgeridoo. Not as an instrument. Not as a summoning tool. It looked like a bong. It was embarrassing. But, Dawn was so emphatic and she’d put so much work into it; what could he say? He agreed to meet Jamie at a rock show.
Jamie was really good looking, which made Andrew uncomfortable right away. People like Jamie don’t put out personal ads unless there is something really, horribly wrong with them. Or they are robots. Andrew didn’t get a chance to really talk to Jamie until the opening band finished and the next band prepared the stage for their set. As soon as there was sufficient quiet, though, Andrew asked him if he liked American music.
“I hate everything that’s American,” was Jamie’s reply. Andrew flinched and tried to look less American. He did this by slouching and sucking in his stomach. “Except for American Idol, which is brilliant farce, I reckon.”
Andrew nodded. He pulled one of the four cherries out of his Rob Roy and nibbled on it.
“Did you know that maraschino cherries aren’t actually made of cherry?” he asked, figuring that non-fruit was as good of a topic as any.
“Are you flirting with me, Andy?” Jamie grinned, winking with one eye and poking Andrew’s shoulder with a bent knuckle.
Andrew’s flinch at the name and the poke should have answered the question, but just in case, he abandoned the other half of the cherry and blinked rapidly. “I don’t… think so? Am I?”
The next day, he told Dawn that they didn’t hit it off because he didn’t like Super Furry Animals. She grimaced and nodded, “’Nough said. Next! We have… Dylan.”
Dylan, 30. “Bohemian” (which Andrew later decided meant “unwashed”) and “full of surprises” (which Andrew learned meant that he had a girlfriend). Culinary school. Fun-loving. Looking for a partner in crime.
Andrew wasn’t so sure about the “partner in crime” business, so he shouldn’t have even have gone. It was a total botch. Within ten minutes of meeting for coffee, Dylan asked Andrew if he’d like to do some MDMA and meet his girlfriend. Which was a “what’s that” and a “no.” Both of them, for some inexplicable reason, decided to continue on with the date and order some chocolate cake. Just so he’d get something out of something out of the evening, he went along with it. Unfortunately, committing to cake also meant committing to hearing Dylan’s shpiel about politics and the immorality of linear monogamy. Andrew nodded politely and waited for a god-sent stoke that would, unfortunately, never happen. He finally stood up to go when Dylan asked about Andrew’s last relationship.
“I don’t really want to talk about it,” was all he could think of. Which wasn’t exactly true, on more than one level: 1) It wasn’t really a relationship; 2) he really did want to talk about it, but not to Dylan, and 3) …oh hey, there’s my bus.
“Was it something I said?” said the next guy, called Jay, after Andrew faked an emergency phone call.
Jay was flirting so much, and talking so much that Andrew was amazed that Jay even noticed that he stood to leave. There’d been a hand on his knee! Under the table! And there was definite winking. And also, an allusion to being really good in bed. All of which made Andrew’s stomach knot up and head swim.
Quickly, and with a tiny, apologetic smile, Andrew lied, “No, nothing you said. It’s just - I’m not, I mean: I don’t like boys.”
“I don’t either, man!” Jay’s voice called after him.
When Andrew got home, he scanned the weekly until he saw his ad at the bottom of the page. So embarrassed. This was his new scene: a bunch of acronyms and abbreviations, ages, incomprehensible measurements, locations, code words and catchphrases. His friends in Sunnydale would have laughed him off the planet, but then again, they weren’t exactly around, were they? Aside from the Scooby crew - which was always busy and/or dating each other - no one who knew him from home was around to witness his desperateness.
Except Dawn, obviously. And, since this was all her fault in the first place, she’s the one who bore the brunt of Andrew’s frustration.
“Yeah, okay, it’s better to be alone than with the wrong person, but this is just crazy, Andrew! You hate everyone. They’re too nice, or they’re too tall, or they’re too forward. They don’t know enough about computers, or they don’t get your jokes. Or - okay, that one guy who had a girlfriend was a creep, but they aren’t all bad guys! Why can’t you just get to know someone before you judge them all… judge-ily?”
Andrew didn’t have an answer for any of that. His mind wandered back to where his game was paused. If he could just pause his life and play the game. Wait until the right guy showed up… he’d recognize him. He’d know.
“Why can’t you just figure out what you want?” Dawn insisted, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like everyone else was just a formerly-mystical key with a slayer sister, who had perfect skin and was a good dancer and knew what to say.
“Figure out what I want?” Andrew repeated, scowling at his sandwich. Look to the sandwich, Luke. It has all the answers. Use the sandwich. At least to buy some time, Jedi. Because she wasn’t going to get an answer. He even had one, for once, to what would typically be a cripplingly impossible question. The problem, though, was he couldn’t tell Dawn that he actually did know what he wanted. He just didn’t know how to make all those guys be someone else.
No ship.
Andrew, post-AtS series, tries to date.
Quick beta from i_warren. Please help. Write the next part.
All Dawn Summers’ idea, for the record. Andrew was completely content to just martyr himself to nightly evening mass at the Church of Quake II, eating chips and tartar sauce until he exploded with fatness. Maybe he’d actually able to fit into his grey suit, if he kept it up through the rainy season.
To which, once postulated, Dawn said no. Probably so she wouldn’t have to hear Andrew talk about the hacks he downloaded or the Glitch That Was Ruining His Life. She refused to let it go, too, suggesting places to go, people to meet, clothes with which he was to lure potential victims… Andrew started to feel like he was Dawn’s Ken doll.
Plus, it didn’t work. Andrew tried: he stopped wearing t-shirts out to dinner, bought new sneakers, got his hobbit hair trimmed up. Everything. But there were no dates. No crushes. Nary a mobile number exchanged. Just the endless weekly parade of being a slightly gay, completely sexless and partially-redeemed ex-supervillain: standing up to work people, playing Quake, guiltily downloading Internet porn, deleting it the next morning and, Wednesday’s movie night with Dawn.
Finally, she upped the ante by tricking him. Andrew didn’t realize it until Dawn got up to dance to her favorite song and didn’t come back. Leaving him with Miles.
Miles: 27. Red-haired. Irish. Not from Ireland, though. From Cleveland. Didn’t get irritated when Andrew asked why he didn’t just admit to being American. Didn’t get prickly when Andrew asked why he was trying to get “back to his roots” in England, then, and not Ireland. Bought Andrew a soda, but didn’t ridicule him about not drinking beer or cider like everyone else.
When Dawn came back an hour later, Andrew was still struggling to answer the very simple question of “when did you come out?” Miles came out when he was 25, it seemed, shortly after his girlfriend at the time cheated on him with another girl and he realized he didn’t really care. Since then, he’d just been enjoying the lifestyle. Back in the states, he’d go to mixers, meet people through a gay and lesbian book club, and he even got so desperate (he said) that he put out a personal ad.
He smiled when Andrew said he couldn’t ever do that - that he’d feel too lame and that the ad would probably just attract sicko perverts.
“Hey, don’t knock it. That’s why I’m here. Your friend Dawn put an ad out for you and pre-screened me. She said that you were having a hard time meeting people… and I can see why-“ Miles said, nudging Andrew’s elbow with his glass of beer.
Andrew flinched and thought Because I’m ugly, because I have a reputation, because it was only that one boy and he died, and because the only other person that I might have been okay with, I stabbed, because I don’t know how to talk to you or anyone else, because I don’t know what I want.
“You’re shy,” Miles concluded. “But that’s okay, because I used to be shy, too.”
Miles wasn’t a sicko pervert. Miles, actually, was a pretty nice guy. He didn’t know anything about video games, though. Or D&D. He liked hip hop and something called “jungle” that Andrew wasn’t clear on. He had a computer, but he was running Windows XP on it and it was full of viruses. Maybe Andrew would maybe he’d want to come over, help him with his computer and watch a movie or something?
Andrew said okay, but what he meant was “I’m not very good with computers.”
Hanging out for a tech support date was awkward. Which was not a shock to Andrew, Dawn or Miles. Andrew didn’t know what to wear. Everything in his closet suddenly looked too gay. And here he was going to go hang out with a Gay Guy, who used to be shy, and who needed help with his computer. There were no appropriate clothing choices for Andrew’s new identity.
SWM, 22, curious, shy, on work visa, enjoys technology, mysticism, gaming. New to London. Tour guide? Tea? More? Contact Postbox #92999
He brought Miles a tin of Earl Grey and a burned CD of some computer games, figuring that at least he’d try and be that guy in the ad. The guy who wanted a tour guide and enjoyed tea. The guy who was looking for friends. Miles’ computer, however, wouldn’t run any of the games. Something about the video card being too slow and there not being enough RAM. Andrew didn’t completely understand it, because they worked on his computer, so it must be something wrong with Miles’. There were many problems with said computer, which was obvious when Andrew sat in front of it, staring blankly. Pop-up ads bleated up on the screen as soon as he reached for the keyboard. And he couldn’t get SP2 to download. Trying to think, so he could at least do the one thing he committed to doing by coming over to some strange American Irish guys’ flat, he downloaded and ran SpyBot. He’d seen Willow use that. He mumbled something about registries and clearing the cache on Internet Explorer, to which Miles said he should just go ahead and have at it. Other than deleting the cache and cookies on IE, though, he was stumped.
When SpyBot stopped running and Andrew got a gander at what kind of sites had installed all that spyware on Miles’ computer, he didn’t know where to look. Miles played DJ for a while, made them some tea and asked if Andrew would be into watching some TV. There was a couch involved. Andrew eyed the sofa suspiciously and said that he wasn’t sure what Miles expected, but that he wasn’t sure if he was ready to watch movies. At this point in time. In fact, he kind of had to get back so he could take care of something at his place. Miles looked a little confused, and maybe a little bit sad, but he gave Andrew a stiff, one-armed hug and said it was okay.
The next guy was Jamie. Andrew read his ad before meeting him, as Dawn’s gig was up and she was fine with involving him in the screening process. Although she still didn’t understand what was wrong with Miles. Andrew said he was nice, and friendly, and smelled a little like Oil of Olay.
Dawn shuddered and read off Jamie’s ad: “’Musician. Age 24. 6’2. Uncu-uncommon …uh, abilities. Looking for blond, curious and friendly buddy to go to shows with. Musical talent a plus.’ So, I was thinking with your summoning stuff and love of the didgeridoo…? Eh? You think? Perfect for you, right? I met him for coffee. He’s really cute.”
The thing is: Andrew didn’t like the didgeridoo. Not as an instrument. Not as a summoning tool. It looked like a bong. It was embarrassing. But, Dawn was so emphatic and she’d put so much work into it; what could he say? He agreed to meet Jamie at a rock show.
Jamie was really good looking, which made Andrew uncomfortable right away. People like Jamie don’t put out personal ads unless there is something really, horribly wrong with them. Or they are robots. Andrew didn’t get a chance to really talk to Jamie until the opening band finished and the next band prepared the stage for their set. As soon as there was sufficient quiet, though, Andrew asked him if he liked American music.
“I hate everything that’s American,” was Jamie’s reply. Andrew flinched and tried to look less American. He did this by slouching and sucking in his stomach. “Except for American Idol, which is brilliant farce, I reckon.”
Andrew nodded. He pulled one of the four cherries out of his Rob Roy and nibbled on it.
“Did you know that maraschino cherries aren’t actually made of cherry?” he asked, figuring that non-fruit was as good of a topic as any.
“Are you flirting with me, Andy?” Jamie grinned, winking with one eye and poking Andrew’s shoulder with a bent knuckle.
Andrew’s flinch at the name and the poke should have answered the question, but just in case, he abandoned the other half of the cherry and blinked rapidly. “I don’t… think so? Am I?”
The next day, he told Dawn that they didn’t hit it off because he didn’t like Super Furry Animals. She grimaced and nodded, “’Nough said. Next! We have… Dylan.”
Dylan, 30. “Bohemian” (which Andrew later decided meant “unwashed”) and “full of surprises” (which Andrew learned meant that he had a girlfriend). Culinary school. Fun-loving. Looking for a partner in crime.
Andrew wasn’t so sure about the “partner in crime” business, so he shouldn’t have even have gone. It was a total botch. Within ten minutes of meeting for coffee, Dylan asked Andrew if he’d like to do some MDMA and meet his girlfriend. Which was a “what’s that” and a “no.” Both of them, for some inexplicable reason, decided to continue on with the date and order some chocolate cake. Just so he’d get something out of something out of the evening, he went along with it. Unfortunately, committing to cake also meant committing to hearing Dylan’s shpiel about politics and the immorality of linear monogamy. Andrew nodded politely and waited for a god-sent stoke that would, unfortunately, never happen. He finally stood up to go when Dylan asked about Andrew’s last relationship.
“I don’t really want to talk about it,” was all he could think of. Which wasn’t exactly true, on more than one level: 1) It wasn’t really a relationship; 2) he really did want to talk about it, but not to Dylan, and 3) …oh hey, there’s my bus.
“Was it something I said?” said the next guy, called Jay, after Andrew faked an emergency phone call.
Jay was flirting so much, and talking so much that Andrew was amazed that Jay even noticed that he stood to leave. There’d been a hand on his knee! Under the table! And there was definite winking. And also, an allusion to being really good in bed. All of which made Andrew’s stomach knot up and head swim.
Quickly, and with a tiny, apologetic smile, Andrew lied, “No, nothing you said. It’s just - I’m not, I mean: I don’t like boys.”
“I don’t either, man!” Jay’s voice called after him.
When Andrew got home, he scanned the weekly until he saw his ad at the bottom of the page. So embarrassed. This was his new scene: a bunch of acronyms and abbreviations, ages, incomprehensible measurements, locations, code words and catchphrases. His friends in Sunnydale would have laughed him off the planet, but then again, they weren’t exactly around, were they? Aside from the Scooby crew - which was always busy and/or dating each other - no one who knew him from home was around to witness his desperateness.
Except Dawn, obviously. And, since this was all her fault in the first place, she’s the one who bore the brunt of Andrew’s frustration.
“Yeah, okay, it’s better to be alone than with the wrong person, but this is just crazy, Andrew! You hate everyone. They’re too nice, or they’re too tall, or they’re too forward. They don’t know enough about computers, or they don’t get your jokes. Or - okay, that one guy who had a girlfriend was a creep, but they aren’t all bad guys! Why can’t you just get to know someone before you judge them all… judge-ily?”
Andrew didn’t have an answer for any of that. His mind wandered back to where his game was paused. If he could just pause his life and play the game. Wait until the right guy showed up… he’d recognize him. He’d know.
“Why can’t you just figure out what you want?” Dawn insisted, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like everyone else was just a formerly-mystical key with a slayer sister, who had perfect skin and was a good dancer and knew what to say.
“Figure out what I want?” Andrew repeated, scowling at his sandwich. Look to the sandwich, Luke. It has all the answers. Use the sandwich. At least to buy some time, Jedi. Because she wasn’t going to get an answer. He even had one, for once, to what would typically be a cripplingly impossible question. The problem, though, was he couldn’t tell Dawn that he actually did know what he wanted. He just didn’t know how to make all those guys be someone else.