(Untitled)

[magicboner]

characters: Jonathan Levinson and Andrew Wells.
rating: we'll just go with PG at best!
summary: a little something we like to call SzechuanGate. Andrew and Jonathan go for Chinese, a certain someone doesn't show, general merriment occurs. except, not. [incomplete~]

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[magicboner]

Sudden movements. Andrew forgot the thing about the sudden movements. But Jonathan can't blame him, it's not like he expects everyone to slow down for him. Still, even though he jumps a little, it works when he lands on his tiptoes and throws his arms around Andrew's neck. He hasn't smiled this much in weeks.

"I feel a lot better," he says as the hug breaks. Andrew's face alternates between glee and delight, and it makes Jonathan grin even harder. "See? It's fine. Um, still can't bend much, but it's fine." One of his hands drifts up to run through his hair as he peers into Andrew's apartment. He expects posters and collectables, and has to fight hard to remember that that stuff doesn't exist here, for the most part. It looks more lived in than Jonathan's own, and he briefly wonders when, if he'll get a roommate. It could be Trinity.

He's not exactly overjoyed at the prospect of seeing Warren right now. All of his excitement is more about being able to walk, seeing Andrew, seeing everyone, and oh yeah, food that he'll finally be able to keep down for the whole day. So he jerks his head to the side and nudges one of Andrew's feet with his own. "We should probably go." A slight pause. "This is the first time you've seen Warren, huh?" Jonathan wants to add, he looks good for a skinless guy, but bites back his sarcasm for now.

[storytell]

Jonathan's reflex fear still makes a coil of guilt burn brightly inside Andrew's stomach, but he lets being happy for his friend drown that out for the moment. "I am so glad," he mumbles into Jonathan's hair, and he really is.

Part of it is selfish - his ball and chain all healed up and alive assuages a lot of the core of Andrew's issues, stuff he liked to pretend he'd dealt with properly but never really had. Mainly because he didn't know how, didn't even know if he could. But now Jonathan's all healthy-like again and Andrew finds that he really is just pleased by the enthusiasm in Jonathan's voice at being able to move again.

Andrew let's the door swing shut behind him and double-checks the handle, just in case, and then pats his pockets for his keys - he always does it in the wrong order, and more than once he locked himself out of the apartment in Rome.

The blood rushes to his cheeks as they move down the hall towards the lift, and Andrew pushes the button, glad of the excuse to turn his face away. It doesn't take a lot for Andrew to go a little pink, and even though he knows it's a dead giveaway, even though he's been trained to hide his emotions and confuse his enemies (like a ninja!), even though. It's still Jonathan, and Andrew blushes and nods vigorously; "Yeah. I still can't believe..." What. That he'd turned up? That was all Andrew's fault, and he still wasn't sure whether when they found out he'd be taking credit or blame.

[magicboner]

Jonathan glances back at the apartment door and swallows hard. He could have stayed in there. They could have the power for once and make Warren wait, something Jonathan knows he hates. All of that anger he had for Andrew has mostly melted away by now, but he isn't sure if he'll ever think of Warren without his body tensing a little. There's just so much. It scares him and reminds him that he needs to go to the doctor, soon. Prescriptions don't carry over in Babylon. And he knows, he knows that Warren won't work things out like he and Andrew did. He knows better than to even try. So he'll play nice, try not to say stupid things that could upset either of them (though he's finding it's hard to avoid that) and maybe, hopefully, he'll forget for a while. They can go back to the way things were.

He leans up against the far wall of the elevator again and watches his reflection in the door. With Andrew standing next to him, Jonathan finally sees that Rome made him a little taller. "It'll be okay," he says as firmly as he can when he doesn't even believe himself.

Andrew says nothing, only walks a little in front of him as they exit the elevator. "It's going to be great," Jonathan repeats, grabbing at Andrew's sleeve to tug him back slightly. Maybe if he keeps saying it, both of them will be convinced.

[storytell]

At first Andrew's lost in his own thoughts, but when Jonathan grabs his arm he slows, tilts his head to one side and smiles down. "Yeah, I bet you're right," he says.

And the thing about Andrew is he can make himself believe that completely. The curve of his mouth is a little dreamy, even now with all the grounding stuff he's been through he still wants to imagine their happy reunion. It's something like the Starsky and Hutch beach scene, except Warren's there. Maybe Kirk, returning to the enterprise after they had thought he was dead. Whatever, it was going to be the best reunion ever.

The apartment block is almost right on the main road, and Andrew lets go of his happy place and glances at Jonathan, biting his lip. "Um, do you wanna catch a bus or something? Or do you think you can manage the walk?"

[magicboner]

When he laughs, it's hoarse and genuine. He keeps looking up at Andrew, and the fact that he's still worried about him makes Jonathan feel all sorts of warm. Cared for in a way he's not used to. But no, he's okay for now. "Um, of course I want to walk," he says as he shoves his hands into his pockets. Andrew has no idea. There's nothing he wants more right now than to just walk.

So they walk in silence for a bit. Not awkward, just quiet. Jonathan keeps stopping to look around, then skipping a few steps to catch back up. Andrew was right, this world is awesome. Not better than Sunnydale (nothing is, nothing will be) and he's still not convinced that it's better than Rome, but it's something. The simple fact that Jonathan has no idea where he's going is keeping his mouth shut. There's too much to see to be distracted by words.

For no good reason, all his nervous energy comes to the forefront again. They aren't just wandering or, in his case, sightseeing - there's a destination, and probably not that far off. A destination of deliciousness, but still. Warren is probably already there. The name and face flash through his mind, make his stomach twinge painfully. He won't run (he can't run) but he will stop to grab Andrew's wrist. "You're sure?" It's no use even trying to be convincing anymore. He's scared.

[storytell]

Of course Andrew is thinking about Warren. What he'll look like, how he'll have changed. His memories of past events are always fuzzy, colored by his own daydreams and make-believes. The blandness of school has been pushed aside to the vivid life he lead after graduation, from the moment Warren asked if they wanted to team up and take over Sunnydale.

When Jonathan grasps at him, Andrew stops and twists his hand around, twining his fingers through his friends', stepping back around from the horizon to face him. "Of course I'm sure," he says, his own eyes as serene and cloudless as the blue sky above them. He knows Jonathan doesn't understand why in the end he believes so heartfeltly in Warren, but it doesn't matter.

"What happened isn't important. This is a clean slate." Andrew takes a deep breath, draws his free hand through his thick curls. "And we can't just avoid him. It's Warren, and it'll be hard, but if we get some food and avoid the hard topics it'll be fine. Just like it used to be." Before all the betrayal, than sitting around with a bag of Doritos and some dice was an epic way to spend an afternoon. Above everything that has ever been between he and his friends is the simple desire to talk to someone else who understands; who'll laugh at his Simpsons quotes and argue nuclear fission powered space exploration technology or dwarven land movement speeds with him.

[magicboner]

For a few seconds, Jonathan just stares at Andrew. He looks so calm and sure of what he's saying, it's refreshing. Hell, he looks almost angelic, and for a second Jonathan can't imagine how anything could ever go wrong.

He doesn't let go of Andrew's hand, only loosens his grip a little. "What happened isn't important," he repeats dully. It's the same tone he would adopt when he talked about not going back to the big house, and he doesn't like the way it feels in his throat. But Andrew just starts walking again, pulling Jonathan along behind him. "I don't know how you can even think that," he mumbles, not sure if he wants his friend to hear or not. He definitely doesn't want to argue, and so he picks up the pace, his hand still slack in Andrew's own.

"It'll be fine," Jonathan says again, more for his own sake. He isn't as good as believing himself. Ever. Again, he has to swallow the urge to expand on just how fine he's so sure it'll be. All bunnykittens and rainbows and sunshine and chocolate sprinkles and-

He stops when Andrew does, in front of a slightly dilapidated green door. "This is it," he says, his voice caught somewhere between yeah, we're going to destroy the One Ring! and oh holy cats it's Mount Doom and I'm gong to die a fiery painful death.

[storytell]

"Just don't wig, okay," Andrew says, who can feel some maxicup wiggins coming on himself. He squeezes Jonathan's hand apologetically and lets go - that is so totally not the right foot to start himself out on. But he turns to face his friend, reads his nervousness in the shifting stance, the way he tries to hold himself a little taller, pretend like everything's fine. Andrew lets his hand slide back and touches him once, on the wrist.

The people already inside the little restaurant are looking at him strangely out the window, and Andrew twists the handle. "C'mon, we'd better go in before they think we're planning a robbery." The joke doesn't seem very funny about five second after he's said it, considering all the robberies they did plan, and Andrew just cuts through both their indecisiveness and goes in.

A quick scan of the place proves that it's mostly empty. There's really only the family by the window - certainly no sign of Warren. Andrew shrugs, turns to Jonathan and scans one of the lunch special boards. "I guess he's late." He waves away the diminutive waitress (she's almost shorter than Jonathan) and takes a seat at a table by the door. "Figure out what you want; we should probably just order for him."

But Warren isn't normally late, and disquiet is beginning to build in the pit of Andrew's stomach. Maybe some fried rice will help with that. He scans the descriptions and pricees unseeingly, no longer even paying attention to Jonathan, his eyes darting minute glances towards the door and his fingers fidgeting erratically with the ragged edge of the laminated menu.

[magicboner]

His wrist doesn't twinge when Andrew touches it, but his fingers do curl into a fist. "Oh, yeah. We should have tried to hold up a Chinese restaurant." It's a joke, even if it doesn't sound like one, so he smiles reassuringly before they walk in. Every cell of his body is flooded with relief: Warren isn't there. Maybe he got lost, or is waiting to catch a bus. Jonathan doesn't care.

Jonathan doesn't know why he's so nervous. After all, he's the one who's already seen Warren. That was the problem, though - they hadn't really talked. There had been the brief "how ya been, this place is sick," but it only took a few minutes to devolve into their usual sniping, followed by awe at Peter Jackson's masterpiece. Even if everything had a slightly purple hue and half was dubbed over in Spanish. They hadn't said anything of importance, nothing about death or skinlessness. And even though Andrew says to avoid the hard topics, Jonathan is convinced that they'll come up. They always do.

He smiles at the cute waitress and considers where to sit. Bad idea for Warren to think they're ganging up on him, excluding him, so he chooses the seat across from Andrew instead. It'll be interesting to see who Warren chooses to sit next to. As if it's even a question.

Andrew is fidgeting, and Jonathan stares at him from over the menu. Order for Warren, right. He glances down for anything Szechuan and spicy, but draws a blank. How is it he can remember the exact brand of obscure tequila Andrew liked in Mexico, but not what kind of rice Warren prefers? It's telling, and it makes him frown.

Jonathan twirls the menu between his hands and kicks Andrew lightly under the table. "What do you think he wants?"

[storytell]

Andrew's concern runs to the other end of the spectrum - what if Warren got hit by a bus? What if he ran into Buffy or, or, Starbuck, and they killed him again! What if his room-mate was actually some Batemenesque serial killer, bent on using Warren for her first evil experiment with body parts. He tries not to imagine it, chewing on a nail instead and staring worriedly at the dessert page.

The worries are pretty ridiculous, but Andrew's mind tended to slide into melodrama when he was nervous. "Kung Pao chicken," he answers Jonathan automatically, barely even realising he's doing it. Once upon a time he'd made a point of finding out what Warren liked and didn't, and then he spent a good year playing a tragic little game of memory with the facts, getting up every morning to see which ones he'd forgotten. "Maybe some..."

His next word never gets past the first syllable and Andrew drags his eyes unwillingly off the page and up to meet Jonathan's. It hadn't occurred to him until now, the idea that maybe Warren was just not coming. That his friend would just choose to blow off their happy reunion. That Warren might have better things to do.

Andrew has no idea what his face looks like, but he quickly schools it back to normalcy and finishes his sentence. "Uh, some omelette or something?" His tone seems to be about an octave above his normal speaking voice, and he desperately wants a hug. Though one of his hands reaches across the table and stills the twirling motion as he takes Jonathan's (it's a security blanket thing, he reassures himself) he doesn't hold his friend's gaze. Instead his head turns and he cranes his neck, just in case Warren had arrived in the past few seconds and Andrew's ridiculous idea had meant he missed it. Just in case.

[magicboner]

For a second, Jonathan doesn't care about the food. He lets the menu fall onto the table and catches Andrew's hand. Andrew won't look at him. It's fine, he's used to avoiding eye contact with people. "The thing I said, about it being fine?" He taps a finger on the inside of his friend's wrist. The thought has crossed his mind, too, that Warren just won't show. But that would be worse than showing up and fighting with them, and would Warren really pass up the opportunity to come out on top? Ever? So he just shrugs and squeezes Andrew's hand tightly. "It's still true."

And he can almost, almost believe himself. But Andrew is easier to convince of things (his stomach turns a little at the thought, and he wonders when it won't) so he'll just keep saying it. It's a moment, a nice one, even when Andrew is fidgeting and keeps looking toward the door. Jonathan looks up as well and sees the waitress standing awkwardly off to the side. He shouldn't blush, he know he shouldn't, but he does anyway and quickly lets go of Andrew's hand. So much for that.

"Uh, hi," he manages to choke out, picking up the menu again. "We'll, um. We'll eat. Food. Yeah." Oh my god, shut up shut up shut up and just talk. "An order of Kung Pao chicken, and fried rice-?" He glances at Andrew, who just nods absently. "Um, and chicken chow mein. And eggrolls, and that sour soup. And, oh..." Another look at the menu before he smiles at her, gritting his teeth a little. It's going to be a grand feast of a reunion, and he won't hear otherwise. "And a hot pot. Please."

She doesn't say anything, just nods slowly and writes it all down before taking their menus and retreating. Jonathan huffs out a little breath and looks back to Andrew. "Um. Did I miss anything?"

[storytell]

"I don't think so," says Andrew, who hadn't entirely been listening. Now that he thinks about it, it sounded like Jonathan had listed a fair amount of food. "In fact," he adds, "Definitely not." He realises Jonathan isn't touching him anymore and settles for worrying at his napkin.

He sighs, the self-serving refrigerator catching his attention. "Do you want a drink?" Andrew, pushing his chair back with a screech. "I'm getting a drink." Mostly the restaurant just has juice and that weird substitute soda - he'll never get used to what Coke tastes like here, never ever - Andrew grabs something green and returns to the table, putting Jonathan's bottle in front of him. A second later he hops up again to get straws from the container on the counter. Finally he just sits there, trying not to look glum but unable to keep the expression off his face the longer it goes on. This isn't the way 'fine' goes. Warren had been talking about takeaway. Maybe it would have been easier to just hang out with Jonathan. This isn't fine at all.

"Where do you think he is?" Andrew finally bursts out, knowing he doesn't have to explain who. He hadn't wanted to ask Jonathan, who could be kind of a pessimist at times, but right now he just wants to be reassured that Warren does want to see them.

He's probably just taking extra long getting ready. It's barely been what, ten minutes since they arrived? Andrew's overreacting, he knows he's overreacting, but he can't suppress the panic. It feels the same way as when he found out Jonathan was here, alive; lungs way too-tight, air burning through his bloodstream, vision wavering. Well okay, Andrew isn't quite at hyperventilation point yet, but that's mainly because Jonathan's voice and eyes and presence are helping him not think about it. It's ridiculous, the way he can get all grown up and in the end he's still a wreck at the idea of his best friends hating him.

[magicboner]

Jonathan watches Andrew shredding his napkin into teeny tiny pieces and sighs. He unscrews the cap of his drink and smells it cautiously. First thing he's been able to drink since water and whatever sort of weak tea Andrew had brought him a few times, and he doesn't even know what it is. Still, he takes a sip and, surprisingly, doesn't immediately spit it back up. He opens his mouth to tell Andrew it's melon and fizzy and that he should try it, when his friend explodes.

"I don't know," is his quiet, honest answer. The family by the window has long since stopped pretending that they aren't staring at the pair. Their nervous energy is practically palpable. Jonathan sighs again and gets up to switch chairs. Warren will just have to deal with it, if he ever gets here. It'll look like they're teamed up against him. That won't be good.

But he just feels bad for Andrew, making all the effort, and angry with Warren for keeping him waiting and for so many other things. So Jonathan sits in the seat next to him and takes one of Andrew's hands away from the napkin. "Look, Warren's probably just...having a hard time," he stammers. He's spent days trying to suss out a good way to tell Andrew what it's like, and still hasn't come up with anything. Beginning to feel a little heavy, he leans his free arm on the table and props his head up in his hand. "It's, um. It's just hard when, you know, you get here and..."

Yeah, there's no good way to put this. "It sucks to know you were supposed to die, and, um, Warren didn't have you to help him with it like I did." All in one breath. And then, his patented move, the backpedal. "But it's not your fault," Jonathan says, moving his eyes from the tabletop to meet Andrew's. "It's not. He's just being. Stupid." If he could have controlled the bile dripping from that last word, he would have, but it's something inside of him that just can't be put down anymore.

[storytell]

The new seating arrangements barely seem important next to Jonathan's words. His hand is enfolded by Jonathan's, wrapped up for comfort, and Andrew takes a sip of the drink as he listens. He doesn't taste a thing. When he puts the bottle on the table there's a mini snowstorm of tissue, the tiny white shreds sticking to the condensation. He'd rather watch that. The way the water blossoms through the tissue and collapses it is fascinating; a breakdown in miniature.

"But," Andrew says, and then closes his mouth. The whine in his tone is way to close to what he thinks of as Evil: The Early Years. Like he's about to say; that's not fair. He wants to, but what would it change?

"I would have helped him," he says. The not-your-fault thing doesn't even register; Andrew folds one arm on the table into the paper mache mess and buries his head in the crook of his elbow. God, people probably think they're breaking up. "I'm sorry," he says in a muffled voice, meaning for making a scene. He's not quite crying, but when he peeks out from under the fall of his hair his face is red and splotchy.

He squeezes Jonathan's hand as though he can squeeze all the hatred in both of them away. Maybe then they'd be able to fix Warren, or just learn to keep their mouths shut when he tries to fix them. "He's been here for a while," says Andrew, and maybe it's all that time around Ice Queen Buffy but there's something cold in his voice. "It was just Chinese - he didn't even give us a chance."

[magicboner]

Jonathan understands Warren. He doesn't want to. He wants to understand Andrew.

It reminds him of the pre-Andrew age, as short as it was, and the rare moments when he wasn't at the lair. Mostly he and Warren would just sit around and argue various geek trivia or compare how crap their lives were, but they were still friends. He made Warren laugh without meaning to, without really trying, and Warren gave him (pretty horrible) girl advice. They made fun of the freak kids in group while ignoring the fact that they were freak kids themselves. And they understood each other. There were these moments of being completely on the same wavelength, and they were always so intense that they scared Jonathan a little. They continued into super villainhood, and just from that short visit, he knows they're continuing into Babylon. It's something so deep that can't be shaken by betrayal and flaying. Before Warren, Jonathan never thought anyone else could be as messed up, as in their own head as he was. Is.

But the thing is, Babylon is like therapy revisited. He can't just shove his issues under his bed, grab the blank slate and run with it. Been there, tried that. He has to deal with them, at least some of them, and start over the right way. If this is his redemption arc, he's going to do it right. And maybe Warren wants the easy way out. And maybe Jonathan understands that.

It isn't an excuse, though.

He wants to run his hand through Andrew's hair, down his neck and spine and back up again, do any of the comforting things he learned when they were just the Duo. Screw the family sitting by the window and the cute waitress, this is his best friend. Ahh, but there's the problem, if Warren were to choose that moment to walk in... Unlikely, but Jonathan know his luck is so awful that that exact thing would happen. And then, what? Explain to Warren? It's not. We're not. Not like that. Not like you - that's not what I meant, oh my god, here have an eggroll! Yes, let's make this excursion into an even more spectacular mess.

Mess. Andrew is a mess. "Don't be sorry," Jonathan says, his voice still venomous but quiet. "We're here, and he's not." On the last word, all of his nervous energy comes out through his free hand, which he slams on the tabletop. "Whose fault is that? Um, not mine, and so not yours."

There's nothing he can say that'll make this okay, and he knows it. "Warren is different," he mumbles,. He could extrapolate for days about just how different Warren is, but why expel all of his bile at once? "Maybe he doesn't want help. Or, um, Chinese." The waitress is coming back to their table, flanked by two others with platters, and he realizes just how much food he ordered for two. Three? No, two. Another twinge as he realizes he's already given up on Warren.

[storytell]

Andrew jumps when the the slam reverberates through the table and into his arm. The cheap cutlery rattles, and he pushes himself up to look at Jonathan. He knows Jonathan is probably just as upset about this as Andrew is - he sounds like it, at least - but an innate selfishness in Andrew wants to believe that he is the one being wronged here; Warren is avoiding him. "You can't know that," Andrew says, because it is his fault, it has to be. Warren can't just. It has to be.

The food smells really amazing, but Andrew doesn't feel that hungry anymore. "Thanks," he mutters at the waitresses, not meaning to sound ungrateful but unable to lift his mood back to its usual buoyancy He picks up his bowl and starts scooping in Chow Mein, the spoon shaking in his hand. Eventually he gives up and just puts it down, staring at his food. There's kind of a lot. It emphasises Warren's absence even more, and Andrew slides his hand sideways so he's touching the edge of Jonathan's shirt, right near his stomach, feeling it shift as Jonathan gets his food.

Eventually he takes his fork (despite his otaku ways, Andrew has never mastered chopsticks) and tries to eat some of the food. It's easier once he starts - he really does want to eat, it's just that the entire situation fills him with nausea. "How can he not want Chinese?" Andrew says, trying for lightness and sounding bitter, a note which rings unfamiliar in his voice. It doesn't seem right to him that Jonathan knows so easily what's going on in Warren's head - that Andrew has to be the one getting explained to. Had it always been that way? He remembers feeling left out, in the early days, like he was only there because they'd known his brother and because his lego collection was epic.

But stuff had changed since then. It had become Andrew and Warren... and Jonathan. Now, it seems, that all meant nothing (which brings back memories of a jail cell and trying so hard to believe in Warren.) He doesn't like being the third wheel, it's a fear that's haunted him since he found out they were both here. Now it's coming true. Maybe he's making it come true. Andrew just can't work out where he's going wrong.

"I guess he just needs time, or whatever," he adds, filling his mouth with noodles so he won't say anything incredibly stupid.