stilljustandrew | (no subject)

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?"

"It's a pretty straightforward Summoning," he says. "No circle, even. Just the burnt offering and the incantation. I'm just hoping I got the name right."

"And that the name she gave us is enough." He shrugs slightly. "Best we've got to work with, anyway."

"That's the thing," he says, frowning. "The name definitely matches up with Ciatheklar, but the circumstance doesn't really seem to fit. She's supposed to be the patron of blood avengers. People who've ... had friends or family members killed."

"Well, everyone in our business's lost friends," he points out. "But that doesn't have much to do with what she was talking to me about..."

"I guess if she's not the right one, maybe we can ask her who the right one is?"

He's using the knife to shred a handful of stiff dried leaves into the bowl.

"If she'll tell us," he agreed. "But if she is the right one, I'll know her when I see her."

Andrew reaches for a second bag and pulls out a few fragments of something strong-smelling. "So we play this as it comes."

"Seems like the only game in town." He nods.

A quick grin, as he uncorks a tiny bottle. "Time to toss the dice?"

He pours a few drops on the herbs already in the bowl; they hiss and send up a thin trail of smoke.