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Summary: Jonathan's ruminations on life in Sunnydale, life in Pittsburgh, Andrew, his mother, and realities. Slash, (no duh) of the Andrew/Jonathan variety. Warren will be visible in this story. Choice on how.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Television > QAF (UK and US versions)optimouseFR1563,528181,76021 Feb 0817 Sep 08No


I maintain that I do not own any of the characters that I portray within this work of fanfiction. Showtime does, and Joss Whedon, and if I were them, I wouldn't be scrounging up money for a new battery for my laptop

“Debbie was my mother. Debbie Novotny. Dad was a Levinson though, a married one at that.” Jonathan removed his pen from the paper, looking over at his boyfriend, sprawled all over his bed, asleep. In the light from the lamp, you could barely see the roots of his hair growing out, and Jonathan wondered how long Andrew’d bleached his hair blond, to fit in with the rest of his family. “ When I was born, he sued for custody, and won, taking me and his wife and older child with him to his new job in Sunnydale California.”

Jonathan’s ballpoint pen was wood, brass lining. Andrew had given him a set of them to him for his Hanukkah gift, though Andrew, like his older brother, celebrated Winter Solstice. “I’ve met my mother a few times since then, and her other son, my brother Michael. They’re nice.” Another pause, and Jonathan watched Andrew curl over himself, clutching a pillow to his chest. The tracks of tears were under his eyes, crusting and salty, and Jonathan just knew that if he looked carefully, more would be welling up from under his boyfriend’s eyelids, crying even as he slept. “Mom and Dad know that I’m gay, they don’t really care, but I’ve always worried about Andrew. While Tucker wouldn’t give a damn, and their parents wouldn’t give a damn about Tucker, if he was, they would care if it was Andrew. They do.”

Another pause, a new paragraph.

“I graduated with Tucker in the spring, one of those of us who survived to Graduation. Andrew set flying monkeys loose on the play that year, I maintain that it wasn’t to show up Tucker and his hellhounds, but to seek revenge on me for Prom. I’d chickened out and asked a girl instead of asking him, the one I’d brought home to my parents. And when I think about it, teaching flying monkeys to hate Shakespeare was bloody brilliant.” Another pause.

“Andrew came here tonight from his house; there’s a bruise on his cheek. I didn’t bother to check the rest of him, I know there’ll be more, and I’ll want him to go to the hospital, but we both know that they’ll do nothing about it. So instead, I watch and think.” The pen pressed down into the paper again. “And plan.”
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