stilljustandrew | (no subject)

"Yeah," is the simple response. "Faith knew some of them, some were Bound and bored... nobody took much persuasion."

"Wow," he says again, a little quieter, lowering his head again.

"So, uh. Light?"

"...light," Jonathan remembers, a little sheepishly, and casts the spell. It's a simple one, it only takes words.

"Thanks," he says, as the diffuse glow spreads, and starts taking supplies (acquired at Milliways) out of the backpack and setting them up on the dusty floor: a flat golden bowl, a few silk bags of herbs, a box of matches.

After a moment or two, he glances up and then quickly down again. His tone's casual on the surface, but effortful.

"This, uh. This remind you of anything?"

He can't just mean a pop culture reference. Not with that tone in his voice. Jonathan looks at him carefully.

"The old days?"

"Yeah."

He's looking into the backpack at the last object he needs, and can't make himself reach for it.

Jonathan walks over and leans past Andrew to look into the backpack.

He thinks he can guess what he'll find there.

He's right.

It's a knife -- the small silver-bladed kind for use in cutting up herbs.

Andrew doesn't look up.

"It's okay," Jonathan says quietly, reaching down to pick up the knife. "I know you wouldn't fall for that again even if it was here."

And he places it, firmly, in Andrew's hand.

His hand closes unsteadily on the knife, holds it for a moment, then sets it down along with the rest of the items.

"I miss you." It's not much more than a whisper.

"I know." If the circumstances were different, he might hug him, but something tells him that move has to be Andrew's. "And if there was something I could do to help..."

He shakes his head. "You have to go back to your world. I know that. I just ..."

When he looks up, his eyes are damp in the magelight.

"W - ...would like it to be different," Jonathan completes. "I'd bring your Jonathan back for you, if I could."

He breathes out.

"I've got other friends now." Small-voiced. "The Italy squad. And ... Buffy says I'm part of the family."

"That's good." He offers an encouraging smile. "That you didn't just... I'm glad."

"But I still miss you. Like. A lot. I just ... even with, with everything that happened, even before the First ..."

Andrew's answering smile is fragile.

"You're still the best friend I ever had."

"You too." He takes a step towards him. "I mean... you're my brother."

His mouth falls open. No sound comes out except the hushed hiss of swiftly indrawn breath.

"I --

"You mean that?"

"To the end," Jonathan assures him. "It was always you and me, remember? Way back before we met Warren."

Yeah, he tries to say, but his throat's closed up and he can't make a sound.

He nods instead. It isn't enough.

With a shaky breath, he steps forward and wraps his arms around Jonathan.

Jonathan hugs him back, tightly, and there's a deep and true affection in the gesture.

It's several seconds before he lets go.

"Okay," he says, and sniffs hard. "Okay. Clock's ticking. Let's do this."

"Is that what Gummi told you?" Jonathan asks quietly, moving towards their equipment. "That the clock's ticking?"

"He said there's a time limit," Andrew agrees, hunkering next to the bowl and reaching for one of the bags. "Didn't say how long. And it'd kind of suck if we missed it by, like, thirty seconds."

"He's like that," Jonathan says wryly. "Always with the cryptic and half-useful. What's the best ritual for this?"