TITLE: “Blonde Venus”

AUTHOR: Polly Burns

SUMMARY: Three vignettes showing the changing relationship between Jonathan and Andrew.

SPOILER WARNINGS: Um, not really any that I can think of. Oh, yeah, “Earshot”.

RATING: Call it PG-15, for drinking, badwords, and implied m/m sex.

DISCLAIMER: You know they don’t belong to me. Oh, and why’s that? Cos they belong to Joss Whedon, that’s why. Oh, well, that sucks. You’re tellin me…

NOTES: Okay, the first part takes place during the Troika days, slightly before “Dead Things”, I would think, cos everybody’s kinda happy-go-lucky. The second part happens when Jonathan and Andrew have just gotten to Mexico and are on their way to Tijuana. And, finally, the third part happens right after the end of my other story “The Word For Wind”. Make sense? No? Read it anyway- this is the closest thing I have to a job!

Oh, and of course the title of this story comes from a Marlene Dietrich movie- but don’t get so excited, Andrew is not going to be singing in this one. Maybe next time.

Blonde Venus

Warren was O-U-T, out, tonight, having gone out to do… something- having left Andrew and Jonathan behind. Andrew was in a foul mood, having a sulk, which Jonathan was working hard to ignore. Though he wasn’t saying anything at all, he could have been screaming his head off for how peaceful it was making Jonathan feel. His silence was loud, paradoxically, like the boom of a jet engine, like white noise. It was beginning to make Jonathan feel carsick.

Finally, Andrew spoke, his voice a firecracker whine, “Jonathan, buy me some liquor.”

Jonathan almost choked on his own spit. “Yeah, buy me a date with Lara Croft,” he mumbled, then looked up from the book he was reading, “Buy it yourself.”

“I can’t,” Andrew kicked at the floor, “I’m too young.”

“Well, life sucks and then you die,” Jonathan snorted.

“You suck!” Andrew yelled at him. It was difficult for Jonathan not to laugh, but he managed.

They were silent for a moment, Andrew again immersed in his sulk, which had thankfully lessened in potency. Jonathan’s book was a compendium on high magick, from magic squares to gematria- and it was boring him to the point of stupidity. I almost wish Andrew would come over and bother me, he let the thought sail like a dart through his head. Then, as if he had said the words, Andrew came over, sat on the arm of the couch, lowered his head so that he could get a better look at Jonathan’s book and asked, “What’re you reading?”

“Magick book.”

“Oh.” Andrew frowned, bit his lip. “It’s like math to me, or something, I don’t get it.”

Jonathan looked up, started back when he realized how close Andrew was sitting. “Well, uh… you do the conjuring thing, that’s a kind of magick.”

Andrew looked up at the ceiling, through which they could hear the faint percussion of Warren’s mom going from sofa to bathroom or from sofa to kitchen. Those were her two main routes. He looked down and frowned again, “I dunno, it’s, it’s not really something I ever thought about- Just, I can, y’know, do it. See,” here his face lit up a bit, “what you do, that’s like, that’s talent.”

“Is that a compliment?” Jonathan smirked.

“Sh-shut up,” Andrew said, but he was smiling as he did.

Standing up, Jonathan sighed. “I’m not going out, but I’m pretty sure Warren keeps something around here, for when he can’t even stand to be around himself and needs to get drunk to pretend he’s someone else.”

Andrew gave him a strange look; Jonathan supposed its meaning to be some mutant shade of hurt, indignation and reluctant agreement. Pretending he hadn’t gotten its implications, Jonathan shrugged and began searching around the room for whatever Warren had squirreled away. Finally, his hand lighted upon the dulled metal cap of a bottle of rum. Holding it up to the light to see how much was in there, he smiled with one side of his mouth and said, “Success.”

“Ooh- you found it?” Andrew sounded entirely too pleased.

“Yeah,” he furrowed his brow, “But you’re not drinking all of this.”

“You’re not my mom!” Andrew put his hands on his hips.

“No I’m, uh, not your mom, but I don’t want to hear Warren bitch when he comes back to see that you’ve drunk all his rum and passed out.”

“How do you know I’ll pass out?”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “This much booze would make a horse pass out.”

“God, exaggerate much?” Andrew sighed, rolling his eyes now, “Anyway, I don’t want all of it. I’m just so freakin bored!”

“What are you,” Jonathan said, “stupid? If you’re bored read a damn book, watch a movie, don’t drink! The last thing we need is you turning into a drunk.”

Andrew looked down, and Jonathan knew that he had done something painful to him with one of the words he had said, but he couldn’t figure out which one was the offender- or gauge how much he had wounded him. Unable, for some reason, to look into Andrew’s eyes, he shrugged and handed him the bottle by its swan’s neck. Jonathan about-faced, returning to the couch and his boring-ass book, and then he heard a terrible hacking. Quickly, he turned his head and saw that Andrew was making the most awful face, coughing like a cat trying to bring something up.

“What is it?” Jonathan asked, trying to downplay how concerned he was.

“Blaahh! This stuff tastes SO BAD!” He shook his head violently.

“It’s rum, Andrew, not fucking Hawaiian Punch!” Now that he knew that Andrew was not dying, Jonathan managed a laugh. “Gimme that.”

As though it were a baby, Andrew wrapped his arms around the bottle and pulled it away from Jonathan’s reach. “No. I can drink if I want to.”

In spite of himself, Jonathan stamped his foot. What was it about Andrew that made him act like as much of a spoiled brat as him? “I’m not gonna take it away from you, idiot! I just want some.”

“Oh,” Andrew relaxed his grip on the bottle. If it had been a baby, it would have been dead from strangulation by now. “What happened to not wanting to hear Warren bitch when he gets home?”
“Screw Warren,” Jonathan spat. For his declaration, he was thrown another incomprehensible look from Andrew. Jonathan extended his hand, waved his fingers to say Gimme. Sighing, Andrew gave over the bottle.

“Oh, God, that is awful,” Jonathan said, mouth wet, after taking a drink.

“Yeah, I know.” Andrew took another painful drink and giggled.

“You aren’t drunk already?” Jonathan laughed in disbelief.

“What? No!”

Still holding the bottle, Andrew walked over to the couch. His usual slouch was less uptight, slinky almost, Jonathan observed. He shook his head. Don’t watch him walk, he chastised himself, shaking his head yet again.

“What’s wrong with you?” called Andrew from the couch.

“Nothing.” Jonathan shook his head for the hundredth, but not the last, time and went to join him.

“Andrew, where’s my book?” Jonathan lifted the cushions, looked underneath the couch.

“Dunno.” Andrew shrugged. Then Jonathan noticed a sharp corner done up in rusty red leather.

“Goddammit, Andrew!” he snarled, pulling at the piece of the volume that wasn’t hidden under Andrew’s ass.

“Ah!- what?” Andrew tried to jump up, but was sunk too deep in the couch and already too inebriated to be all that quick.

“You’re sitting on my book, fuckhead!”

“It’s just a book! Don’t, like, have an aneurysm over it,” he said, having managed to pull himself off of the volume, “Asshole,” he added.

“It’s a really old book,” Jonathan muttered, as both explanation and defense. Fastidiously, he tried to smooth out the bends in the pages. Finally, he let out a tired sigh, and dropped down next to Andrew, who had reclaimed his seat.

“What’s on TV?” Jonathan turned and asked him.

“I dunno. Shit.”

“This stuff doesn’t make you sound all that smart, Andrew,” Jonathan laughed, and took the bottle from him.

“Yeah, well, uh, it doesn’t make you look all that tall, either.”

“What the fuck? What does that have to do with anything?” Did that actually bother him?

“I dunno,” Andrew said weakly, “Just, sometimes I feel like it’s our routine, like you always say I’m stupid and I always say you’re short. Like we’re the Marx Brothers, or something, that’s our shtick.”

With one eye shut, he peered through the hole in the rum bottle’s neck at the tawny fluid within. He drank and his voice came up rough, “Yeah, and Warren says those things all the time, and nobody says anything to him.”

“Stop talking about him like that.” This time Andrew sounded genuinely, what, hurt, was it?

“Sorry,” Jonathan said, and he was sorry, for reasons he couldn’t have articulated when sober and now, half-drunk, could not even conceive of. He just knew that it didn’t feel good when Andrew’s voice wobbled like that, like somebody who was walking on a wire and about to fall.

Turning away to get the TV guide, he let the bottle fall into Andrew’s hands. He turned on the television, first poured over the pages in the guide and then flipped blindly from channel to channel with the remote. All of this he managed without once looking at Andrew. Though he wasn’t watching him, he knew that Andrew was putting away more and more rum. Maybe it got easier the drunker you were, like your sense of taste just died for a while. Jonathan wasn’t liking the way he felt; it was weird, wrong somehow. His stomach roiled as though it had been filled with something caustic, his limbs felt entirely too disconnected to the rest of him… Of course even a negligible amount of liquor effected him, being as small as he was- Andrew, what was it doing to him? Cautiously, Jonathan turned his head to the side and looked at him, sickly by the blue light of the television. His head was off to the side, like somebody had placed it there, his entire body was slack, hand just managing to form a ring around the bottle’s neck.

“Are you okay, Andrew?” Jonathan asked slowly.

Andrew nodded, but didn’t look so hot. Well, he looked, he looked drunk- that was the only way to say it. His head was tilted back a little, making his Adam’s apple look like a tiny blade in profile in the silvery wash of TV glow. Jonathan shook his head and squinted- no, not drunk, Andrew looked enchanted. Quickly, he looked away.

After a while, it was probable that Andrew had fallen asleep. Warren was still not home and Jonathan was starting to get nervous- not about Warren, of course, but about Andrew. What if he threw up in his sleep and choked on his own vomit and died like that Saturday Night Live guy? That wouldn’t be good. Lightly, so as not to wake him, Jonathan took the bottle from Andrew’s hand, replaced its neat metal cap and set it on the table. He couldn’t carry Andrew to bed, so he simply turned him on his side. There, now you’ll puke on the floor, he said to himself, feeling very proud, actually. He thought to go to bed himself, but then he thought again of something happening to Andrew. He sighed, loudly and petulantly. Why do I even care?, he asked without words, throwing his hands up. Instead of going to his bed, he sat down next to Andrew, who only took up half the couch because his legs were sprawled out in front of him. He has really long legs, Jonathan thought, rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and mercifully sunk into the dense sweet of sleep.

With a start, Jonathan awoke, feeling distinctly weird, out of place, like. Where was he? The couch, that was under him, there was floor under him as well. And Andrew, he was next to him, and Andrew’s fingers-

Andrew’s fingers gentled over the exposed skin of his arm, as though he were feeling for the first time some exquisite new fabric. The touch was tentative, like he was testing it to see if it would not evaporate, soften to powder under the brush of fingertips. All Jonathan could do was stare for a moment, wide-eyed. His hand seemed to be moving independently of the rest of his body, like it were a small creature that happened to be attached to him rather than something he had command over. It was bizarre, but it was, it was nice, being touched that way, by fingertips as soft as a butterfly’s feet, making him feel ticklish, though not just in the place where Andrew’s fingers treaded.

Finally, he closed his eyes and then hissed Andrew’s name. Then again. The third time, Andrew’s eyes snapped open, and strangely, he didn’t look startled. He continued to pet Jonathan’s arm, with more conviction now, since he was awake.

“Andrew! What are you doing?” Jonathan sounded as pissed off as he could make himself, but didn’t pull his arm away. It seemed like too much of an effort.

“You’re soft,” Andrew said, clearly still intoxicated.

“Christ, Andrew, learn not to drink so much!” Jonathan said and rolled his eyes. Enough was enough- he took his arm back.

“Oh, come on,” Andrew whined.

“What? I am not a, not a, not a cat-toy for crazy drunk people! No!- leave my arm alone!” Andrew was pulling at his elbow, trying to get Jonathan to give in. “What is your problem? Do you even have any idea how weird you’re being?”

“No,” Andrew laughed, “Mm, come on!”

“NO!” Jonathan barked, having a hard time not smiling. Even though he was annoyed and, whatever else he was, this was insanely funny to him. Or just insane.

Without moving too much, Andrew reached for his arm again. Jonathan smacked the back of his hand; it hurt him as well, as Andrew’s hands were so thin, fingers all bone, like those of a wraith…

“Ow!” Andrew yelped, about ten seconds after Jonathan hit him.

“I hit you, like, an hour ago!” Jonathan laughed.

“So? It still hurts.” He made another attempt to grab Jonathan’s arm.

“Jesus Christ, Andrew!” He still was not nearly as angry as he should be. “What is your problem?”

“You’re soft,” Andrew said again and gave him a silly smile, as though this were the answer to every question in the universe.

Jonathan sighed, “All right, but no touching, uh, anywhere else.” Slowly, he set his arm down so that it was again close enough for Andrew to hold onto. This time, Andrew only took his hand and brought it close to his face. Apparently tired by simply speaking, he fell asleep again.

Jonathan looked down at Andrew and tried to figure out what he thought about this whole thing. “Fucking weirdo,” he finally muttered, though he had to admit, he did not say this without affection.

“Whoa, what went on here last night?” Warren asked, his eyes laughing as they did; bright censers full of myrrh and smoke.

Jonathan made an irritated sound and scratched his head. “Andrew drank some of your rum and, like, went all pre-school.”

“Huh?” Warren arched an eyebrow.

“He, uh, never mind.” Jonathan looked down darkly. “Warren, did you know he was insane, before you asked him to join us?”

Warren laughed, in a particularly nasty way, Jonathan thought. “He has his uses.”

“He has his uses? What the fuck does that mean?” Unknowingly, Jonathan’s hands had gathered into fists.

“Chill out, Sparky,” that damn nickname made Jonathan blush, like his blood were rum, “I’m just saying, he’s not, like, useless. He can do stuff.” This didn’t make Jonathan feel any better, in fact, it made him feel worse. He just had no clue as to why.

***

From the California-Mexico border, they took a bus (Jonathan temporarily magicked two pieces of paper into what looked like tickets), though “bus” was a bit of a compliment. It was more like a van in its size and shape, made of what looked like aluminum siding, with windows no thicker than aquarium glass. Andrew sat next to the window, his head practically outside the bus. Jonathan wanted to say something, tell him a cautionary tale he still remembered from when he was a kid, about this boy who stuck his arm out of a car window and had it hewn clean off when they were sideswiped- I’m a stupid asshole, he said to himself angrily. Why did he care at all about Andrew? Let him get his head cut off by opposing traffic, then Jonathan wouldn’t have to worry about his dumb ass anymore. Worry- he worried. As much as he hated to admit it, he worried about Andrew. He had done so in jail, worried about his poor little heart, if he would ever stop hurting. Huddled together in the sofa bed at Buffy Summers’ house, he had been scared for Andrew’s life, and afterwards, too, running away from Willow. Briefly, when he had tried to be honorable, bullied Andrew into agreeing to go to prison when all of this was over, he had worried about what could happen to Andrew in prison, and regretted saying absurd things out of a need to be better than he knew he was. When they’d been riding with the tuck driver, Jonathan had worried that he might hurt Andrew. And now, in this lunchbox on wheels, he was worried about Andrew being decapitated. Jonathan was nearly exhausted by all the worrying.

It’s so pointless, he laughed to himself, a bit maniacally, Andrew doesn’t give a shit about me. As if to prove this to himself, he turned and leaned forward a little, so that he could see Andrew’s face. His expression was completely blank, his normally mobile mouth a sad, slack line, his eyes like pebbles polished to a weak shine. See, he doesn’t care; Jonathan pouted. Then, for some reason, Jonathan’s thoughts turned back to a freakish occurrence the week before. Though, it was strange thinking about the week before, or last month, or when he was twelve. This, this bus ride, this moment, was like the beginning of a new era, a new life, which was completely ignorant of the old one. But, last week-

Andrew, loaded on barely enough liquor to get a schoolgirl buzzed, what was it, petting his arm. That was perhaps the strangest thing Jonathan had ever seen, and living in Sunnydale, he had seen some strange things. He had done some strange things- But Andrew touching him, like that, that was a whole new world of strangeness. It hadn’t been, like, sexual, Jonathan thought, it had been like Andrew needed to be comforted. Before his habit of self-censoring interfered, he let himself wonder if Andrew needed comforting now. He thought of how he had held him at Buffy’s house, the whole night. Jonathan had not been able to sleep the rest of the night- waiting for Willow to come in through the window and eviscerate them, he told himself. Really, he was worried that Andrew might begin to weep anew, might have a bad dream, something… In the milk-water first light of day, Andrew’s hair had been almost silvery, like the bark of certain trees. In his sleep, Andrew’s mouth had dropped open, making him look like a child-

Now, though, he did not look much like a child. Every so often, in spite of himself, who he was, Andrew looked very adult, cold, less like a porcelain figurine made flesh and more like a numb, stoic thing carved of marble. Jonathan laughed at the thought- Andrew, as anything other than soft, spoiled, inane, annoying- but so, so innocent.

That’s what you respond to, he told himself firmly, you want to take care of him cos he seems so helpless. As though he had wandered into a mist by mistake, he found himself wondering how Warren could have ever used him, hurt him like that. If I had someone like- He shook his head until the thought was extinguished. Strangely, he didn’t remind himself that he didn’t like boys, but rather, he said to himself frigidly, You don’t have someone like Andrew.

Just in, just in case, Andrew did want to be comforted, Jonathan let his arm fall out of his lap, moved it the slightest bit closer to Andrew. Nothing happened, Of course, he told himself, and he shut his eyes, preparing to slip into some half-sleep, like a sheet of paper floating slowly down from the height at which it has been dropped-

And then, the barest of twilight caresses, Andrew shyly laid his hand on Jonathan’s. Slowly, trying to see how much he’d be able to get away with, he slipped the tip of one finger up Jonathan’s sleeve. Pretending not to notice, Jonathan turned his head to the side; Andrew gently palpated the pearl of bone in his wrist. Finally, Jonathan had to see Andrew’s face. He turned his head just a little, and saw that Andrew had been looking at him. His expression was soft, gently sad. For a second, he looked as though he might say something, but he let his lips close and gave Jonathan the slightest ghost of a smile.

***

“Do I really remind you of the Birth of Venus?” Andrew lifted his head a little, from the willing cushion he had found in Jonathan’s chest.

“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true,” Jonathan replied softly, feeling very sane, very settled, very peaceful. It had been ages since his voice came out of his throat this smoothly, like a ribbon of roses’ petals; the last time he had sounded this way, it had been magickally altered.

“Oh,” Andrew said happily, placing his head again on the flat of Jonathan’s ribs, his hand wandering here and there. The itinerant appendage went up to Jonathan’s shoulder, down to the valley of his hip, fingertips lighting over the fold of his thigh. Suddenly, Jonathan felt self conscious. Andrew had been touching him all over like that since, since he couldn’t remember when- What was he thinking? Jonathan had a suspicion that Andrew didn’t think the way most people did, that his thoughts were not arranged in any sort of configuration that would be understandable to somebody else. It was charming to Jonathan, more so than he’d implied to Andrew when they’d been in the bathtub, but unnerving all the same. Most people were readable, and frankly, uninteresting, to Jonathan, but Andrew, Andrew was exasperating and irritating and so… worth it.

As though Andrew could read his thoughts or perhaps just understood him better than he let on, he looked up again, eyes beakers full of an exotic substance ready to tip over, murmured the word Pretty.

“Huh?” Jonathan asked, genuinely startled.

“I said, you’re pretty.”

“Nu-uh.”

“What do you mean, Nu-uh? That’s what I said.”

“Well, y’know…” Jonathan looked someplace else, someplace away from Andrew’s eyes.

“No, I don’t know. What?”
Jonathan gave an airy sigh. “Well, you know I haven’t been told that a whole lot.”

“Neither have I,” Andrew laughed, “Weren’t we already over this?”

“It’s not that easy!” Jonathan huffed, suddenly frustrated, “How the hell can you be so, um, whatever you are?”

“Because I trust you,” Andrew said softly, and then Jonathan had to look into his eyes.

“Really? That soon?”

“You could have turned me in, back in Sunnydale, but you didn’t,” Andrew sat up so they could look directly at each other, Jonathan did as well “You could have told me to fuck off and left me on some highway somewhere- you didn’t. You could have sold me to some Mexican pimp- you didn’t. When you hold me, I feel safe. And I realize that most people would think I was brain damaged from hitting my head at the amusement park, but I wanna trust you.”

“Wow.” Jonathan was breathless.

“Yeah, wow. So when you tell me something, I’m gonna believe you. I know you’re good, I know you’re the good one. It took me a long time to get it, but, hey,” Andrew lifted one shoulder dismissively, “I’m kinda dumb.”

“No you’re not,” Jonathan shook his head. He felt lightheaded. He lay back down and pulled Andrew on top of him, kissed him slowly.

When they had moved apart, a little bit, were lying side by side, Jonathan turned toward Andrew, then turned away again. “Um, I tried to kill myself, back in high school.” There didn’t seem to be a more graceful way to say it.

“You what?” Andrew leaned toward Jonathan, trying to get him to meet his gaze.

“I tried-”

“I heard what you said! I was expressing shock and dismay.” Still, Jonathan was turned away. “Jonathan, look at me.” Reluctantly, he did.

“I just wanted you to know,” he began, “cos, cos, I don’t want us to have secrets like that between us. And I don’t want you to, to not know me, to not know exactly who I am. Cos that’s part of me, even, even if I wish it weren’t.”

“Jonathan, I don’t care. I don’t care what you did in high school. We all do stupid shit when we’re young,” Jonathan raised an eyebrow, “Okay, younger. When we’re sad or we feel desperate.”

Andrew seemed to know what he was talking about, and Jonathan got a sinking feeling that he wasn’t just referring to his dalliance with Warren. But Andrew did not elaborate, and Jonathan did not feel that this was the right time to ask him to. Instead, he said, “I’m glad, I’m glad you can accept me, like that, without freaking out.”

“It doesn’t mean anything to me,” he shrugged, “You’re a different person now than you were then, and even if you hadn’t changed at all, if you still wanted to hurt yourself, I’d do everything I could to make you not want to.”

Jonathan looked into his eyes, stunned. “How are you so, so, I dunno- How can you be so good?”

“I’m not good, I just feel a certain way about you, and I won’t let anything get in the way of it. That’s all.” Andrew lifted one cream-colored shoulder. Jonathan kissed his skin, so like the smooth, pale seashell in that painting he had compared him to. Suddenly, he got a flash of it- doves, leaves shed like tears from a tree, the woman with the serene smile coyly making ineffectual attempts at covering her nudity. Andrew, with his head turned invitingly to the side and one hand resting in an arch on his breastbone, the bed sheets barely hitched up enough to conceal his hipbones and the dusk between them, reminded Jonathan more than ever of that painting. My blonde Venus, he said to himself, the thought barely a patter of raindrops in a mind suddenly grown silent and still.