Barclay let Ashton tip his head up, gazing into those silver eyes he knew so well. He'd seen them angry, ecstatic, greedy, fierce, proud... But Barclay had rarely seen them this emphatic, this compassionate. The witch wasn't sure if he could take it - he hated being pitied.
But then Ashton spoke, and Barclay listened quietly. He didn't interrupt, didn't point out that most of the things he had accomplished he had accomplished because of magic. Because what was Barclay Grisholt without his magic? A loser. And that...
But Ashton didn't believe that. Ashton believed he would be himself again, stronger and bigger and better than ever. And when Ashton said it, Barclay could almost believe it.
The witch buried himself against Ashton's chest and nodded silently. For now, this was okay. This was progress.