Easter [ indesolution]

[amber]

easter

fandom buffy the vampire slayer [indesolution au]
characters jonathan levinson, andrew wells.
notes written with exuberance for the indesolution rpg. 24.04.08.


Jonathan has been privy to plenty of loud and senseless fighting over the years. Graduation, Bond battles in the van, the night of the Orbs, the day Mukuro was arrested — but the silence that fills Rule 42 is louder than all of those combined. He keeps telling himself, over and over, this is pointless, I'm going to end it. But neither of them speak. Andrew's been re-shelving for nearly an hour now, engrossed in finding new and exciting ways to confuse their customers, with Jonathan sitting cross-legged on the front counter, occasionally going over receipts and invoices but mostly just playing with his Gameboy.

He's forgotten how confusing Seafoam Island can be if you're not really paying attention. And in German, forget it. Jonathan smiles a little at that — Asuka might not be particularly nice to him, but she still invited him to yesterday's Evangelion Easter celebrations. And to be fair, it was insanely awesome. Even if Rei mostly just stared at him when he ruined his first egg, but what with the recent isolation from his friends, he's grown used to her silence. It's a lot less tense than what he has currently, at any rate. A dying growl comes from the machine in his hands. Raichu fainted? Seriously?

"This is so retarded," Jonathan mumbles, switching off the game without saving. He looks at the back of Andrew's head and lets out a little sigh, turns the Gameboy over in his hands a few times. "So," he says, louder this time, his voice edging somewhere between desperate and frightened. "How was the Easter lockdown?" As lame of a conversation starter it is, Jonathan knows that he needs to be the one to get this off the ground. He's always running around, fixing things, and why should this time be any different? Still, after over a week of this stupidity, he's finally arrived at wanting to apologize. To Andrew, at least. And that's a fine first step.

Andrew's numbering Star Trek episodes in chronological instead of viewing order, writing little blurbs as to what each episode's about and then trying to work out if he should put A Clockwork Orange somewhere near the one which had Malcolm MacDowell in it... or if that should go next to Lexx. But they're all in different formats, so he ends up shelving the crappy VHS Trek tapes over with the New Gen stuff and the movies, and realizes he's now on the other side of the store, where Jonathan is fiddling with his gameboy. Who evolves their Pikachu anyway? Andrew thinks irrationally.

"Pretty ineffective," he says, moving Trek episodes around and jumbling them all up — not intentionally, just because he doesn't want to meet Jonathan's eyes. "I mean, the Easter bunny visited Anya anyway, and she practically died—" He pauses, rethinks that hyperbole. "She wasn't too impressed. I dunno if it was someone in a rabbit costume or what, but the padlock didn't deter them. Poor Anya." He gives a little shrug, tears tiny strips off the label for The Changeling (part two) and scuffs his feet nervously. "I wasn't there, I went to the bathroom and heard screaming." He doesn't know why he's telling Jonathan this; maybe because once they would have giggled a little over Anya's crazy rabbit phobia. He doesn't know why Jonathan keeps coming in at all; Andrew doesn't want to talk to him, and it's not like they have any urgent customers anyway. Though it is nice to see that he's, you know. Okay. Alive. Andrew swallows.

"Um, what about you, how was your Easter," Andrew asks in a tone that says he's just being polite. He doesn't want to hear about Jonathan having fun without him. Really, he's so torn with guilt and anger (on Warren's behalf, and maybe his own as well) and loneliness right now that he doesn't want to hear about Jonathan at all.

A smile ghosts over Jonathan's face, if only briefly, and there's no real emotion behind it. It scares him a little when he gets like this. More than the bitterness during the ides fight, even more than the rage that filled him afterward. He's never been good at directing his anger anywhere but inward, and eventually it festered into a deep, hollow sadness. He's reached this point of forgiveness almost out of necessity. That, and after everything else, Jonathan isn't sure that something so superficial could really make him mad at his best friends.

He's not stupid, either. He recognizes the lilt in Andrew's voice and just shrugs, even if Andrew can't see it. "It was, um, you know. It was Evangelion kids," he says carefully. "Misato drank a lot and um, I think Asuka wanted to punch me a couple times, but." A part of Jonathan is determined to show them, all of them, that he's okay on his own. That he's still here and still functioning. It couldn't be farther from the truth, though. As if he needs a reminder of crying in front of Cordelia, the final nail in the coffin of how much he was not going to end up together with her. Jonathan just swallows hard and flicks the power switch on and off, though he knows it wears the precious Gameboy out. "It could have been better," he finishes, a little quietly.

"How's Warren?" is his next question, still staring at Andrew, willing him to look back. He hates this loneliness. It's pathetic and just reminds him of how freaking abnormal their entire friendship is, and how much he values their dysfunction. It's tested, it's tried and true and it works. There's no need to ask if Warren is still mad, so Jonathan just leaves it at that, tracing his free hand in spirograph patterns across the counter.

"Oh yeah, Evangelion kids," says Andrew, as though he hadn't known. As though it didn't matter. There had been a moment where he'd been actually jealous, because even if he'd been the last of the guys to really get into Evangelion (the beginning of his anime phase, he remembers it fondly) Asuka, Rei and Misato are still really awesome. But the way Jonathan says better makes him think with a sharp pang of Christmas. They'd been so happy then.

Warren is dangerous ground, that's what Warren is, and Andrew's pulse quickens a little because he hates loud noises and fighting, has never gotten used to watching Jonathan's face crumple. But it's inevitable, isn't it, that they have to talk about Warren. Even when it's just them, he's there. Andrew's been feeling that a lot lately. "He's okay," Andrew says with a non-commital twist of his lips. He wants to say; I saw him yesterday. He's still not sleeping. I want him to be happy. He really hates Cordelia. But they're not his words to say, not really, and Jonathan isn't the go-to guy for tearful confessions anymore. Andrew doesn't have anyone for that right now (Anya had patted his shoulder awkwardly and changed the subject, Cox had asked why he was at the hospital now that he was all better. It wasn't the same. Jonathan was practically the only person Andrew liked who was genuinely, you know, nice.)

"Do you even care?" he asks sharply, clashing DVD cases together... which isn't fair; it's crossing the lines of polite, awkward conversation. Then, slightly repent-y: "Actually, it doesn't matter. Can we not talk about Warren? Please?"

"It matters," Jonathan counters quickly, his voice cracking a little on the words. "I care. I wouldn't ask if I didn't." He trails off, though, because it's not what he really wants to talk about. He just needs some sort of leverage for when he does eventually square off with Warren, but he knows he's getting ahead of himself, too. There's enough in the here and now that needs to be fixed, let alone the legion of issues that Jonathan and Warren share.

None of this is fair. He's tired, so tired of everything backfiring in his face. Therapy taught him that he deserved happiness, but Babylon is teaching him that if he admits he's happy, things will inevitably blow up. It's sick, but Jonathan misses the month and a half he lived in the hospital, if only for Andrew's faith that he would be there whenever he woke up. If only for being the good guy, for once. Before the empty sadness had set in, most everything was twisted up in disgusted exhaustion — tired of always being the one making everyone mad, getting blamed for every wrong turn, having to mend friendships over and over. It passed, of course, just like his anger did. Maybe it's still bubbling somewhere under the surface, but Jonathan thinks that maybe, this is how he'll prove himself. They don't think that he's on their side, when the sheer fact that he's even trying anymore should be proof enough.

"I really hate fighting you," he says simply, heaving the words out on a huge sigh. "Please tell me you agree that, um, this is kind of stupid. I mean, considering." Jonathan lets that hang, lets Andrew fill in the blank on his own, and just stares at the ground. He's letting his words get away from him, and sometimes it's easier that way. "It's kind of funny how I keep screwing everything up for us. So. I'm sorry." Jonathan lets the silence hang for a few seconds before following with, "But, um, if you don't want to talk about that either, it's cool."

There's a little three-step ladder at the end of the shelf for when they rearrange the figurines and Andrew sinks down onto it, stares at his hands and then looks at Jonathan. He's not used to looking up at him, and his faith is sad and scared and earnest. "I'm not even upset about Cordelia," Andrew says, his brow furrowing a little. "I mean, you can be friends with whoever you want to. Or not friends with, I guess," he adds, and his eyes shift away. Warren again; that's the real reason, that there are sides to be taken and he's chosen and he can't just pretend everything's okay when Jonathan really shouldn't have told Cordelia about stuff or tried to go off and just abandon them when everything was so good.

When Jonathan had told him in the hospital, eyes all aglow; Cordelia is here, I bought her coffee, she actually talks to me — and the rest of it... well, then, Andrew had been happy for him, in his drug-addled way. When did that change? Maybe going from spending twenty-four hours, seven days a week with Jonathan to their more distant relationship had hurt Andrew more than he'd thought. Maybe the fact that Jonathan so clearly wanted to keep Cordelia all to himself had made him jealous. He obviously doesn't need us, Warren had kept saying. Andrew knows better. He's being selfish.

"I'm sick of fighting with you, too," he admits. "Everything's really boring and I'm guilty all the time and Warren gets so bitter and I think Kazu finds it all really awkward?" Andrew bites his lip. "So. Apology accepted, I guess." It's not that easy, it can't be that easy, but right now he means it. Even if they fight some more or he manages to work out what he wants to apologize for or anything that could happen, he knows Jonathan really is sorry and. He likes his apologies. He never expects them from Warren, but from Jonathan they're sincere and oddly comforting. Things sliding inevitably back to normal.

He can't control the flush on his cheeks, or that his hands automatically run through his hair and stay there. "I shouldn't have told her that stuff," Jonathan admits, a little horrified and a little bitter. "It's just— when you don't have anyone to talk to about, um, that kind of stuff. You know? But I shouldn't have." And he regrets it, he does. Secrets are meant to stay secret. There's a reason he never told her about the bell tower. If he can keep his own, then he should be able to keep the ones that belong to the Trio as a whole. But somewhere along the line, there was a logical disconnect, and he's been paying for it. "I just want to be friends with all of you, okay," he mumbles, sliding off the counter and onto the floor, pulling his knees up under him as he settles there.

It's tempting to fall back on his usual placating that he's grown so accustomed to; telling Andrew to not feel guilty would be so easy. But the truth is that Jonathan thinks they've all got a lot to feel guilty about. That everyone is at fault here. So he just smiles vaguely at Andrew and shrugs a little. "The thing is, um. I don't want you guys feeling like I was betraying you, because. Um. That's not what that was, and it won't be."

He cuts off anything Andrew is about to say with a sharper look. "And please don't say that, um, it happened once before. Seriously. I'm trying to learn from mistakes." All of these thoughts have been swirling in his mind for days, and finally letting them up for air is a little confusing. But it feels good to talk to Andrew again, even if it is this heavy crap that he really, really hates. "Look, um, just because I care about other people doesn't mean I don't still care about you guys. Kind of, um, kind of exactly the opposite. Actually." Because as much as he loves the When Harry Met Sally thing he's got going with Cordelia (minus sex and, again, minus inevitably getting together — which he's busy convincing himself he's okay with) it mostly makes him realize that his best friends are his best friends for a reason. Mostly, he just wants to hug Andrew, but things still feel a little foreign, so Jonathan just waits.

Jonathan pre-empts him; Andrew always runs by past experiences, and even if through Mexico he'd come to grips with the fact that siding with Buffy hadn't been betraying him personally, there had still been this lingering thought, that maybe Warren would have lived and all their plans would have succeeded if Jonathan didn't have an endearing yet slightly frustrating weakness for the cute, blonde, completely unavailable superpowered girls. Or girl.

Jonathan learns from his mistakes; Andrew wishes he could say the same. But he knows that even with Angel getting brood all over the place, Cordelia isn't Buffy. It still feels in the pit of his stomach like they're fighting, even if Andrew follows Jonathan to the floor, skidding closer and wrapping his arms around his legs, resting his chin on them and staring at Jonathan with mismatched eyes. "You shouldn't have," Andrew says. "But I don't mind because of you know, me. Well I sort of do." Hearing that Jonathan doesn't want to abandon him is reassuring, and makes all of Andrew's anxieties about their drifting apart seems silly and inexplicable. "But not enough to be mad at you forever."

"Dr. Cox pointed out that you aren't going to spend practically every single waking moment holding my hand in the hospital and then run off with a girl, even if she does do stuff like agree to play D&D with us." Andrew bit his lip. Maybe Dr. Cox hadn't said quite that, but it had been the essential point which had gotten through to Andrew. Besides, forgiving Jonathan was easy once you got used to it. "But I'm sorry that I can't... I mean, if you're going to keep making... people. angry, then it's not really about what I think of you." His pauses were getting longer, and Andrew's face was falling again. "I've just been following his lead on this which maybe isn't one of my more amazing ideas but it means I can keep an eye on him." A sharp exhale. "So please, please don't make me choose. I'm tired of choosing."

The thing about being friends with Cordelia is that she vocalizes Jonathan's deepest, darkest, most secret (and bitter) inner monologue without having ever heard even a hint of it. She doesn't edit herself when she speaks about his friends, and in a way, Jonathan wishes he could do the same. But those are issues he won't touch with a lightsaber, selfishness and constant disappointment and having expectations that are unrealistically high. It doesn't change that he's tired of being judged against Warren, though. Mostly because Jonathan knows that he will always inevitably lose.

"Dr. Cox said that?" He wasn't aware the angry doctor had ever acknowledged his presence, other than politely informing Andrew that doctor-patient confidentiality does not extend to lookie-loos. "I think I just needed a break," Jonathan admits, frowning as he says it. "Just, you know, someone to bounce everything off of. Because, um, you didn't need it. And Warren — it was just easier to talk to her about everything, okay." He has no idea why he's still trying to explain this, because he shouldn't have to justify why he's friends with anyone. To either party. This is stupid and juvenile and Jonathan hates it, just wants to end it as painlessly as he can, and grimaces a little at the turn of phrase in his head.

Three people can't be friends without some divisions. He's learned that over the years, clear and true. And Jonathan knows that it's hardest for Andrew, that both he and Warren can be a little possessive. Or, more than a little, in some cases. "I didn't mean to make you choose," he says a little desperately. "We've talked about this, you know—" But it's starting to get into the territory that chokes Jonathan on a nightly basis, so he just clamps his mouth shut and switches gears. "You're tired of choosing and I'm tired of making people angry and I just want us to be happy and together in this," he lets out all in one breath and stares at Andrew, defeated.

"I do too!" Andrew agrees instantly, because that's really all he ever wanted. Sometimes he thinks things would have been easier if he'd just wished for one of them back, thinks that he would be happier just supervillaining along with Warren or (blasphemy of all blasphemies) that maybe he and Jonathan would be happier if it was just the two of them. But the thought doesn't stay long, because Andrew wants all three of them to be friends.

Unfortunately, that's harder than it sounds. "It's just, he's angry at you. And if I just act like nothing's wrong, he'll end up pushing me away too." It's hard for Andrew to explain, why he can't let that happen. The normal, sane justification is that if he leaves Warren to his own devices, something bad will happen. So if he has to choose, for the moment he's choosing the guy that doesn't have a Buffy or a Cordelia or a Aya or a Han Qi Luo to fall back on. But he doesn't bother trying to explain all of that, because they both know that isn't the real reason and besides, he feels guilty even thinking it; as though Warren's more obvious insanity is a greater need than the dark, dark depths he knows Jonathan possesses.

"But I like you talking to me about stuff. Even if sometimes I don't get it." Maybe Jonathan hadn't wanted Andrew to be burdened with his problems, but maybe Andrew needs that. To have someone else's woes to sort through late at night, when he can't sleep. "I didn't like you having someone else to confide in," he admits. Because Andrew needs Jonathan, and weeks of bedside sitting were an obvious demonstration that Jonathan needs Andrew. But he still couldn't help feeling a little excluded. "But it's okay!" he adds quickly, not wanting this to be a guilt-trip Jonathan session. "I get that it wasn't like that and I know you didn't mean to. Upset anyone. I know how that goes."

For a while, all Jonathan can do is stare and nod absently. He hears everything Andrew is saying, processes it and lets it sink in. And he knows that Warren needs the most help at the moment — at every moment, really. He needs help. They're supposed to save him. It's been an unspoken agreement since they got here, but Jonathan feels like they keep backpedaling and trying to tread water and getting absolutely nowhere.

"I'm not even mad at you guys anymore," Jonathan says, his voice flat with exhaustion. "Mostly, um. Mostly just myself. But— I'll work it out with Warren next. I can do it, I promise." It's just that Andrew is easier, and he keeps wishing they could just rewind to New Years' Eve and circumvent all of the hospital stuff and then maybe he wouldn't have needed to cling so hard to Cordelia in the first place. She was the only undamaged thing in his life for a while, and as much as it guilts him, Jonathan can't really fault himself for wanting even just a little sanity in his life.

Still, he also knows that she isn't what this is really about. "You're still my best friend," Jonathan says simply. "I don't want you to think that you're not. Ever. Okay?" After a second's hesitation, he holds out one hand and gives a small smile. A peace offering. It's a strange place to be making up, the store of their shop, but Jonathan couldn't really imagine them ever doing anything normally.

Andrew unwinds himself slowly, still careful of well-healed wounds, and uses Jonathan's hand for nothing more than to pull them together and enfold him in a trademark hug, awkward on the floor but utterly necessary. Jonathan is small, and warm, and Andrew buries his face in the crook of his shoulder and just sits there for a bit, breathing in the forcedly even way that always gives away the fact that he's trying not to cry. "Okay," he says quietly.

It's a while before he pulls back, and even then he keeps touching Jonathan's hand as though he's afraid. But his face is relatively placid, and he turns an earnest gaze on Jonathan. "What are you going to do?" he asks. Jonathan can't just— well, no, Andrew doesn't want him following the same apology paths. But it's going to be harder. "You don't have to tell me," he adds, dropping his eyes. "I mean, it's not really any of my business. But I wouldn't... I mean, I just don't know how you're going to manage to make him believe you."

Andrew bites his well-chewed lower lip. "I believe you, by the way," he mutters. "I'm sorry that I didn't, you know, sooner." That isn't the apology Andrew really wants to give but he isn't sure at all how to just come out and say it; not like this, not when they're so close. Maybe it will never be said. Maybe the way he's stroking Jonathan's fingers says it for him.

Andrew's a worrier. Jonathan knows that. Half the reason he barely left that hospital room was to silently say to Andrew, you don't have to worry, I'm here. He may not be big or strong or violent or particularly good at problem-solving, but Jonathan will take anything for Andrew. A bullet, getting re-stabbed, an eye, his life, anything. It's the same for Warren, even if he'll never believe it, and that mere fact is what drives Jonathan crazy. He won't let other people get hurt on their quest for redemption (or money; it was the same back at home, too) but he'll take it all.

"No, it's totally your business," Jonathan mumbles, squeezing Andrew's hand. "I don't really know yet? I mean, um. I have an idea. But the thing is, it's going to take a long time. Grand gestures, they don't work." His smile turns a little bitter on that, but Jonathan just keeps pushing forward, tapping his temple with two fingers of his free hand. "I'm getting help so stuff like this doesn't happen. I'm not going to let it. And I'll ask Warren, you know, what it would take." He's a little afraid of the answer to that, but still. To compromise, even just a little, he needs to at least know the rules of Warren's crazy game. "I mean, I can't take any of it back now, but, um. I can stop it from happening again."

The fact that he's still here and still trying should be more than enough, but just as Jonathan knows about Andrew's worrying, he also knows that Warren is never satisfied. And neither of them can stand being ignored or, worse yet, shoved off to the side. There's a lot of things to make right, and he'll take it slow. "At least someone does. It's okay," he says, and he isn't just talking about the apology. The siding with Warren, for Warren's own sake — that's okay too. A lot of things are okay. He turns his anger in on himself, anyway, so even if they weren't okay... well, it all ends up in the same place.

"I'm okay, you're okay," Andrew says unconvincingly. It's pretty far from the truth, but he still feels good right now; he had been worrying about this, and now he feels like a great weight's been lifted from his shoulders. Happy, and tired. Mostly the latter's just residual exhaustion; it takes a lot of effort to keep piecing his life back together like this.

"I'll help," Andrew says, knowing he needs to lay out the boundaries. "I mean, if you want help. But if he does something stupid, like tell me I'm not allowed talk to you..." Actually, Andrew wouldn't take that, and Warren knows it. But it's an extreme idea of what he's trying to vocalize. "It's not about you, okay? I was just upset."

But Jonathan knows all that already, and has apologized about it enough. The truth is, Andrew has missed his friend like crazy. Warren's great, Warren's more than great, but Andrew can't talk about his feelings with him. Not unless there is great and immediate tragedy. "But forget about that," he says, wanting to spend the rest of the afternoon before reality kicks back in talking about interesting things. "Evangelion kids! Was it the best Easter ever? Tell me everything."

Jonathan kind of just wants to collapse into his best friend and tell him everything and then sleep forever, not have to deal with anyone else. It's tempting, like everything is lately, but Jonathan just settles for running his fingers along the back of Andrew's hand. "I want your help. But Evangelion kids, right," he echoes quickly, shifting a little and smiling despite himself. "Like, it wasn't bad? I'm glad I was invited and, um, I think Rei actually said something directly to me. Which is new."

The smile is genuine now, because if he forgets about all of the constant melodrama that is his life, it was a good way to spend the holiday. "Mostly we just dyed eggs and ate food and talked. I tried not to, like, interview them." Jonathan pauses for a moment, then raises one eyebrow at Andrew. "They said I was old." The comment hadn't really bothered him. In fact, it was kind of funny. He's still mentally nineteen, and only actually a few years over that — but here in Babylon, where you're either an annoying, rebellious teenager or an immortal vampire-thing, that seems to classify as ancient. It's strange.

"It wasn't really the best Easter ever," he says, a little apologetic. "You guys would have made it better. But, um, what did you do? Did a rabbit really come to visit Anya?" Jonathan has to chew on the insides of his cheeks to keep from laughing, because it's not nice to make fun of someone else's phobia. Even when the phobia is of tiny baby bunnies frolicking around in a meadow, and frankly, Jonathan can't think of anything less terrifying.

Andrew slides around so he can lean against the base of the counter next to Jonathan, slide his head down to rest it on his friend's shoulder, never breaking their grip; with the shelves looming over them, they're practically out of sight of the front door, and Andrew considers just flipping the closed sign. But customers are so rare that he decides it's probably better for business just to assume no-one will come in anyway.

His own smile lingers on his lips, even though it hadn't been that funny at the time. "Yeah, we were just doing stocktake and talking and the padlock must have magically unlocked itself or something." Andrew shrugged. "It was a pretty mean joke to play, I mean no-one else seemed to get an Easter bunny, so it was someone who knew about Anya's, you know, weird thing." Andrew really did feel sorry for her; an aversion to rabbits probably sucked in such a pro-bunny society.

"Easter isn't as exciting as Christmas," Andrew adds, because he doesn't really officially do religious holidays, anyway. "So you know, I kind of. Just didn't celebrate." Which had been the point of hanging out with Anya; to forget it was a special occasion at all. Because special occasions should be spent with friends, like Christmas or- or New Years Eve, or your birthday... Andrew clutched Jonathan's hand harder and muffled a sniffle in his t-shirt.

"It isn't," Jonathan agrees, curling his free arm around Andrew. The move is so familiar and practiced, but he'll never get tired of it, never. And he's kind of glad that they didn't do anything without him, as selfish as that is. Jonathan, on the other hand, had spent the night staring at the walls and wishing he could pull a Chamber of Secrets and erase his memories. Things they've said, completely trivial things, just kept popping into his head — whatever Warren feels, I don't want that to stop you and me being friends again, and it feels like it was ages ago.

"Passover is, like, even less exciting, though." It has nothing to do with anything, but Jonathan picks and chooses his holidays — Hannukah over Christmas, though that may have changed in Babylon, but definitely Easter over Passover. Maybe that makes him a bad... whatever, but it isn't what you practice, it's what you believe. Jonathan just smiles a little to himself at that and runs his fingers through Andrew's hair. That might go doubly for friendship. What's unsaid is a lot more meaningful (and a lot more truthful, and by that token, a lot more destructive) than anything else. "Being real is hard," he says suddenly, just vocalizing more of the things that have been keeping him up at night.

And it is. It really, really is. But it's better than the alternative, most days. "We need each other, all three of us," Jonathan mumbles, casting his eyes around the shop, wondering what would happen if the dome suddenly cracked and all of the radiation came in, would they be safe in here. "We need each other so it maybe isn't as hard," and he knows that Andrew knows this, but it still never hurts to say. He's determined to fix everything for exactly that reason.