stilljustandrew | (no subject)

(no subject)

When Sam next comes into Milliways and visits the Bar, he will be given a note (handwritten on ruled paper with torn-out-of-a-spiral-notepad fringe on one edge) that reads as follows:

Sam --

We're back from Sunnydale.

I'm alive. I was never in any danger from Jonathan and I was an idiot to ever think I might be. Just FYI.

-Andrew

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He receives the note when he ducks in to get a refill on his thermos of coffee, and reads it three times, looking for any sign that there's something wrong with the writing.

"Good," he mutters, aloud. "At least there's that."

And down at the end of the Bar, several feet away: "Hey, Bar. Can I get a latte, two sugars? And a bagel?"

Sam turns his head at the sound of the familiar voice.

He raises the paper aloft, held between two fingers.

"Got your note."

"And -- oh."

He turns to look across (and up) at Sam, his expression a little blank, a little uncertain.

(He's not sure how this is going to go.)

"Hey."

"Hey."

Sam lowers the paper, leaving it face down on the bartop. A beat.

"So. Things went okay?"

His throat hurts, suddenly.

"Yeah." Not very loud. "We found the thing."

"Did it do what you - Jonathan - needed it to do?"

"Not yet. We're still going over the details with Weyland."

"Okay."

Sam makes sure the top on his newly-refilled thermos is tight, then asks Bar,

"Can I get a second cup, for here? Thanks."

He picks up the mug that appears, leaving a couple of bucks in its place, and moves down the bar to join Andrew.

"Any trouble getting hold of it?"

"Just a lot of digging." He picks up his own coffee, takes a small sip that doesn't do much to disturb the swirled pattern in the foam. "Jonathan did a locator spell to point us to it, but we figured we'd better dig it up by hand."

"Ouch."

He grimaces.

"That's rough work."

Sam doesn't seem to still be angry at him.

"Yeah. Took us half a day and then most of the next morning."

"Glad it worked out."

A flicker of grimness passes over his expression at some thought, and fades as quickly as it appeared.

His gaze drops at that.

"Me too," he says to his coffee.

Sam eyes him in silence for a few seconds.

"Did you have any trouble?"

He takes a bite of bagel.

"Depends," he says slowly, "what you mean by trouble."

His eyes narrow.

"Oh?"

"There weren't any demons." Muffled. "Just a lot of old ghosts."

Beat.

"... the non-literal kind."

"Uh-huh."

Sam's still studying him.

"Should I ask?"

Andrew takes a deep breath. Lets it out.

"I told him," he says, slowly, not looking up. "When we were stopped for the night, I told him it was okay. If the spell needed ..."

He's shaking his head, a tiny unconscious motion.

"He said no. Not ever. Not even if that was the only way to get it back."

Sam's eyebrows rise a little at that, but he nods.

"Better man than I gave him credit for. Okay then."

His face burns.

"You and me both," he manages.

"Hey, better safe than sorry," he points out.

"Yeah, try both at once sometime."

He drops the barely-touched bagel onto the plate, pushing it away, and starts to struggle from the barstool.

"Hey!"

Sam sounds utterly startled, and reaches out to grab Andrew by the shoulder.

"Hold on a second. What's wrong?"

"Forget it." Muffled, and cracking. "Forget it, it's over, I shouldn't have --"

His throat's closed again, and he can't make another sound.

"No way. Sit back down."

He doesn't sit back down, but he doesn't make any further move to go, either; just stands there, head down, shoulders hunched, working to get himself under control again.

"He thought I trusted him. I should have trusted him, he would never --"

Sam shakes his head.

"You didn't know that."

"I should have known. I know him. He's --"

better than me

Andrew sniffs hard, fumbles for a napkin.

"He called me his brother, do you get that?"

Sam grows very, very still.

"Gotcha."

"Do you?" He looks up at Sam, eyes red and burning.

Curtly:

"I think I know what it means to stick by my brother, yeah."

A beat. More quietly, without that same edge, he adds,

"Yeah, Andrew. I get it."

He sags a little, looking down again.

"Anyway." Low. "We talked about it. He was ... he wasn't happy. But we're okay."

"But he understood, right?"

"Yeah." A small, unhappy smile. "Better than I did."

"Hey," Sam says. "Hey. Come on. Stop beating yourself up."

"I will," he says, the words coming out on a sigh. "I will, really. It just ... might take a little while."

Sam grips his shoulder for a second, and says nothing at first.

Then:

"Want a beer?"

Fervently: "Oh frith yes."

He peels off a few dollars from the clip in his pocket and lays them down on the bartop, tapping it lightly.

"Two, please."

It's earlier in the morning for him than he generally likes beer, but ... a slight comforting fuzz over his thoughts seems really, really appealing right now.

And even more appealing is the prospect of sharing a quiet drink with Sam, and not having to ask are we okay.

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