(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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[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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Jonathan is good at controlling his body, he doesn't fidget or flail like his friends, usually just sits there in stoic concentration. That's why he hates it when his feelings manifest themselves physically, and immediately draws his hand back. "I'm sorry," he says, quickly replacing all of the utensils before running his hand over his face again. "I do know. Um. I don't know much, but I know that. Thank you." The last bit is directed at the waitress, who's giving him that you're a crazed serial killer, aren't you look. Wrong member of the Trio, lady.

When Andrew says nothing, he concentrates instead on the food in front of him. Nothing even looks good anymore. He tries it all anyway, but it goes down bitter, bitter, bitter. Finally, he settles for the fried rice, which is least likely to upset his stomach. He felt so good an hour ago, just so happy to be walking and seeing people, and now his stomach won't stop turning and Andrew's hand is close to it, too close, but he doesn't move an inch.

"It doesn't make it okay," he finally says in response to Andrew, whose mouth is so full that Jonathan takes the opportunity to babble. "Um, I mean, I get it, but that doesn't mean it's right, you know? Warren should be here." Jonathan stabs at his fried rice whenever he says Warren's name, and he can't seem to stop himself. "Warren shouldn't be making this so hard. It's really hard already. I mean, you and me-"

He stops, looks at Andrew and just shrugs. "We had the whole, you know, betrayal and, um. Killing things to work out. Warren left us." He hates saying that, and he knows Andrew really hates hearing it, so he just grips his friend's hand tighter. "And we're, like, sitting here waiting for him and he's not here, and, seriously, are you surprised?"

It's dripping with bitterness and he doesn't want to hurt Andrew but he can't shut up, and it reminds him of jail. Of Andrew's ridiculous idea of implants, and wanting to check every hole in their bodies, and waiting for Warren until Anya finally came and told them. Jonathan shakes the memories back into the recesses of his mind and stares at the table, not even bothering to touch his food now. He's not hungry. He's getting more toward angry.

[storytell]

Andrew tries to eat as much as he can of the food, because he knows if there's any left it'll just be a reminder of why. Of the fact that they'd ordered for three. Andrew doesn't even like Kung Pao chicken, but he forces it down, thinking of Warren the entire time.

Yeah, they had the whole betrayal and killing issues. Such a normal thing to have to get over. Andrew finally just takes Jonathan's hand, needing the contact and figuring he didn't move to sit beside him just for the view. He wishes, though, that he could see Jonathan's expression, even if he knows there would only be hurt lying in wait.

"I kind of am," says Andrew, and his fork hits the bowl with a clatter. He gets Jonathan's bitterness, he's understood that it's there since pretty much the first time he saw him in group, avoiding the eyes of the people around him and the questions about why he did it. Andrew knows why. So he squeezes Jonathan's hand back. "I really kind of am."

It's not because it's unlike Warren. In fact, this is exactly the kind of thing Warren likes to do, mess with their minds, make a big deal of minor evens and chicken out (though hadn't Andrew been doing the exact same thing outside the door to the restaurant?). It's because Andrew keeps stupidly believing in him, and he knows it's stupid but he does it anyway, even if it makes Jonathan glance at him like that, his mouth tight with annoyance. "Sorry," he says, managing to keep his voice even instead of whispering and crawling and begging. "Um, I know you don't expect anything else." Or maybe Jonathan does, because he is emotional about this, just like Andrew, but in a different way.

"I don't know if you've realised this," he says, the irony seeping smoothly into his voice, "But I kind of tend to think - hope - he's going to do the right thing. Or at least, the better thing. Though uh, Chinese isn't really a test of morality." He picks up his fork, pushes around the noodles in his bowl so they mix with the sweet sauce of hotpot, but doesn't take a bite. "I don't want to do this without him." He gestures around the quiet room at the tables and chairs, but he means Babylon, and their new beginning.

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While Andrew speaks, Jonathan manages to force down an eggroll and about half of his drink. He'll stop now, it's no use trying to force himself to eat when he's starting to feel sick. Take it home, eat it later. Right now it's just painful to look at. More than anything, he just wants to go home and lay in bed and fall asleep, forget this Szechuan disaster even happened.

Well, now they're both surprised. He knows he shouldn't be. Of course Andrew thought Warren would show - this is Andrew, shiny and redeemed but still the same boy who thought that they would get signals from their leader in jail. The whole timeline of things has been on Jonathan's mind for a while now. What exactly was going on the second he said that stupid thing about his girlfriend being pathetic? In a dramatic world (like a television show!) maybe that's when the bullet hit, or his skin came off. It's absolutely morbid, but Jonathan can't stop thinking about it. Ever. His head starts to hurt as well when he gets that familiar feeling of being with Andrew, but Andrew not being with him. He's waiting on someone else.

"It's fine," he says, even if it's not. "I understand." Even if he doesn't. Jonathan's jaw is clenched and he knows it's obvious that he's frustrated, but this the part where things just start snowballing. He expects a lot out of Warren. He always did. It was just that, near the end, he got used to his expectations not being met anymore.

"Yeah, I totally had no idea." Jonathan's voice is low, and when he laughs, there's nothing funny about it. "I realized that a pretty long time ago, okay." Like the day they got away with murder, that was his first clue. "It's not a morality test," he agrees, "but I mean. He could, um, at least make the effort." He turns in his seat to face Andrew, still running fingers over the back of his hand despite his venomous words. "I don't want to either, okay? He's my friend too. But." Jonathan hesitates slightly and clicks his teeth together, staring at the ceiling until he can meet Andrew's eyes again without fear of snapping. "Warren can't hide forever."