Pinky Swear

A/n: As it stands, this story is an individual piece that stands alone. However, I'd really like to continue it, and follow the course of their relationship. If you would be interested in reading where these two go together, please review and let me know!

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"I deserve a fucking car," Griff scowled, kicking at a chipped corner of the pavement. "I help him all the time. I do oil changes, I run back and forth grabbing this wrench and that screwdriver…he doesn't even pay me. If he paid me I could buy a damn car for myself."

Jonah just nodded, raising a hand and trailing it over the whispery-light leaves hanging from branches along the sidewalk. "Maybe he won’t give you one 'cause he knows you'd never be around to help him anymore, if you had one," he returned with a snort.

The tawny-blond boy laughed. "Yeah. Maybe."

They walked in silence for awhile, skirting the edge of the neighborhood, where down the slope the stream tumbled and rushed through the poison oak and dead dry branches that had all tangled down in the streambed. After a minute or two Griff broke out again with an exasperated sigh. "I don't really want to grow up and be a mechanic," he muttered, stretching out his wifebeater by the hem to glare down at the oil stains on it. "I want to be…I don't know. James fucking Bond."

Laughing, Jonah stooped to grab a stick off the ground and said, "Shaken, not stirred," in his best Sean Connery impression. He poked Griff in the ribs with the end of the stick, and ignored the other boy's yelp in favour of peeling bits of bark off the sides.

Griff grabbed another stick and retaliated, lunging forward to jab it in the soft spot of his side between ribs and hip, making Jonah curl over on himself with a growl of annoyance. He swiped back with his own weapon, and for a few minutes they dueled gracelessly until one particularly hard thwack made his own flimsy dead stick snap halfway down the middle. Jonah grabbed it with both hands and broke it the rest of the way, twisting and snapping the whole thing in two long splintery pieces, and tossed them both away.

"I want to be…I dunno, somebody that makes a lot of money. A lawyer. Or a doctor," Jonah decided, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I could be a surgeon. Save people's lives, and stuff."

"Gotta have really steady hands for that."

"I could have steady hands. Or I could be, like. A kid's doctor. What do you call those?"

"Pediatrician."

"Yeah, I could be a pediatrician. That's easy, you just tell all their moms they've got the flu and to just give them Tylenol and make sure they drink water a lot." That was mostly what Jonah's experience with pediatricians had been comprised of, anyway.

"Nah, man, you should be a gynecologist." Griff snorted out a bark of laughter, thoroughly amused by his own brilliance. "You just get to look at pussies all day. Man, what job gets better than that?"

Jonah grinned, maybe a little too quickly. "Yeah," he laughed. "Sounds good to me." It didn't, not really, but he was afraid Griff wouldn't understand.

The houses began to shrink behind them as they left the edge of the development and began to trek down the slope toward the creek, tall dead grass matting under their feet and little burrs sticking to the hems of their jeans. Cicadas buzzed from hidden places around them, and if he listened intently Jonah could hear, every once in awhile, the throaty ribbit of a frog.

There was an old plank slung across the narrow creek, bowed in the middle, and it was just wide enough for two sixteen-year-olds to sit on. Both boys toed out of their shoes and peeled off their socks and, leaving them on the bank, rolled up their jeans to tread into the water. It was surprisingly icy, for all that the day was warm and the water couldn’t have been more than six inches deep, and Jonah's feet went temporarily numb as he waded out to the middle and gingerly seated himself on the board. Griff followed him out but remained standing, watching the water rush around his calves and rolling creek stones with his toes.

Digging in his pocket, Jonah produced a battered pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He fished one out of the box, tamped the end on the cardboard, and then stuck it between his lips. The lighter clicked futilely a few times before it caught, and he held the slender flame up to the cigarette till it lit.

He took a few long pulls, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils. It tasted acrid on his tongue. Then he passed it to Griff, and for a good while neither of them said anything as they passed the cigarette slowly back and forth. Griff liked to exhale with his mouth open, in huge puffs of grey that dissipated quickly into the air. Jonah picked absently at a scab on his wrist. He knew he'd get hell from his parents later when they smelled the smoke on him, but he didn’t care. Sitting here with Griff was worth it.

After awhile Griff dropped the stub into the stream and watched the current carry it away, before finally sitting down beside Jonah with a sigh. "I'll probably just end up joining the army," he muttered, leaning his elbows on his knees. "Only way I’m gonna make it to college, anyway."

"You could get a scholarship." But even as Jonah said it, he knew his friend was probably right. He chewed on the inside of his lip. "Look, whatever we end up doing, we'll do it together. Right?"

"Right." It didn’t sound very convincing.

"Pinky swear?" Jonah held up his hand, pinky extended, smiling at Griff when he turned to look. For a moment Griff just looked at him with that adorable lopsided grin he had, as if to say that Jonah was a huge dork and he couldn't believe they still hung out together.

But he lifted his hand too. "Pinky swear," he agreed, and linked their little fingers tightly together.