Title: Hierodule
Author: Annie Oates
Fandom: BtVS
Pairing: Warren/Andrew
Rating: PG-13
Archive: ATW, Ask.
Notes: For the 'subsume' challenge.
Disclaimers: It's all about the Joss. Grr, Argh.
Summery: ...but it was his and that meant something.
Feedback: Is welcome.
"Virgin." Warren mocked, his mouth turned up in cruel glee.
Andrew frowned, his mind stuttering over words and remembered feel of a warm hand trailing down his spine. "I'm not.. I've had sex." Andrew nodded to punctuate the thought.
Warren's brow quirked up, eyes shining in victory. "With a girl?"
His resolve wavering, Andrew said, "Well no, not exactly."
From the computer station Jonathan snorted. "Virgin." Warren grinned.
Andrew dropped the bag of chips to the counter and walked away.
Over his shoulder, Jonathan called, "C'mon Andrew, some of us need to eat." He paused and the computer answered back with a series of blips before he added, "And some dip, too."
Andrew tugged on the edges of the cuffs of his shirt, bands of material pulled snug around his wrists. He felt bound, almost trapped and tried to ignore the desire of flight that rose within. Lifting his hand, he gently touched the space around one winged figure. Tucked in a crowd of plastic men, this was his favorite. Hidden between armor and phasers, one wing folded against his back, his hesitant Icarus. Andrew knew it was silly, but it was his and that meant something.
From the other room, he could hear them bickering. Jonathan's voice rising to a low whine that signified the impending doom of his argument. Frustration sounded, sharp and cutting, in Warren's sarcastic words. Andrew knew what would happen next, Warren would stalk off and his eyes would touch the little men positioned throughout their lair, flitting dangerously from one to the next, weighing desire to destroy against desire to keep. Deciding which one could be sacrificed in an arc against the wall. Jonathan would be silent, only the clicking of his fingers on the keyboard to interrupt his quiet fuming. Until one long arm drew back elastically and pitched. Then Jonathan's startled shriek and watery blue and Warren would look at the remains in dissatisfaction. And search the lair for something else to break.
Andrew stood, returned and opened the bag. Setting it and a small tub of dip next to Jonathan, a flickering look and Andrew knew he would be okay.
The water was cold as it ran over his fingers and Andrew turned the handle, shutting the tap off. Wet rag, limp between his fingers and he twisted, squeezed, and folded in thirds. Warren was sitting in a low, comfortable chair, eyes closed, finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose. Quietly, Andrew approached and kneeled, gently laying the cool cloth across Warren's forehead. His arm twitched and Andrew flinched, but didn't move back. Lowering his hand, Warren looked at him from beneath the damp rag, eyes focused and black. Andrew looked at the floor and a long moment passed. A nod, at the edge of his vision and Andrew rose, walking into the bedroom to wait.
Andrew pushed his face into the pillow, obscuring the red glow of light that filtered through his closed eyes.
"Whore." Warren whispered and thrust again.
End.