Lost

Syn

PG-13

I do not own these characters.

Summary: Daisy and Mason, finding each other.

Notes: Weird ficlet and also, Dead Like Me--which I've written before but haven't really gotten into writing much.  I love this show though and Daisy/Mason wouldn't leave me alone. 

 

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He's bad news, all the things you swore you hated.  A drunk, a jester, no money or ambition and frankly, he's dead.  You like warm bodies and big wallets.  He possesses neither of these things, but the attraction is there just the same.  Unusual and disturbingly familiar.  That lost, hollow feeling in your chest that never seems to go away eases around him.  Relief comes in the short moments when you're sitting across from each other over waffles, meet gazes furtively, crumpled yellow Post-Its in your respective fists. 

 

You watch him through downcast eyes, his face blurred by mascara-plumped eyelashes.  He looks tired, hung over and lost.  You know the feeling well and you reach out across the distance between you, reaching with the only part of you that's alive. 

 

He looks up, meets your cornflower blue gaze and pulls that charming sideways grin, blue shadows on his cheeks that you know for a fact are rough and inviting.  Your thighs clench in response to the subtle shift of his features, of the twinkle in his bloodshot eyes. 

 

No one has ever looked at you that way, looked right through you and seen something they liked and wanted, not for themselves, but to protect.  You sense the calm beneath the joker's mask and smile back, knowing the gesture will warm him, bring him toward you like a ripple to the shore. 

 

He looks down sharply and his cheeks are flushed, suffused with the quick flow of blood your presence brings.  It's difficult to breath suddenly and you wonder what that means, if it means anything at all.  You grope blindly for the bauble around your neck, but find nothing but pale skin and the sharp jut of your collarbone.  The comforting weight of <i>something</i> has left you and you clench your fingers on air, wanting to hold on just a little longer, but you've already let it go.

 

Adrift, you grope for a life raft and connect once more with him, sitting there, watching you from the corners of his eyes.  He runs a thumb across his lower lip, teeth nibbling on the swell of flesh. 

 

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but a shadow blots out the florescent light from overhead.  You look up sharply, startled and see Roxie standing there with a sour, pinched look on her face.  You look away quickly. 

 

You know, with just one look, that Roxie has your number.  With the thoughts currently in your head, this is a dangerous thing.  You scoot over on the leather naughahide seat and allow her to sit down, taking your untouched waffles with you.  You pick at a blueberry embedded in the dimpled thing, but don't eat it. 

 

Your fingertips are stained blue.  You stare at them for several long moments. 

 

The others are talking.  He's having some argument with Roxie, which is nothing new or interesting, though you usually like to see the air deflate from him a bit.  You like it best when he wilts under your glare and you feel justified for some reason, like you're blaming him in ways you can't quite percieve.  Today, it holds no interest for you.

 

You stare at his mouth.

 

He sips tainted coffee and the smell of Scotch wafts across the table at you.  You feel suddenly very hungry, though your waffles taste heavy on your tongue.   You swallow loudly and push the plate away, knowing before you even do so that he's going to dive in and eat what you've left; a carrion bird with twinkling blue eyes, made bluer by the contrasting red caused by the very same drink he's indulging in. 

 

You watch him eating the waffle, the way he goes at it like he hasn't eaten in days, the way he talks with his mouth open--revolting and charming at the same time.  Blue stains his lips, spreading outward until he flicks his tongue over them, the pink muscle like an inviting snake. 

You take a deep breath, your chest hollow and full at the same time.  Your fingers clench air.

 

He looks at you once every few minutes, but you're silent, reflective.  You have a reap in an hour three blocks down, but you can't seem to make your limbs move, to arrive early and check out the scene beforehand.  It isn't in you today.  You'll do it because you must, but you won't go out of your way to be involved.

 

You heart hurts too much to process it.

 

Your time runs down slowly, minute by weary minute on a clock with too many hands.  Eventually you need to get up and they scoot over for you, deposing George and Roxie.  You say goodbye and flash a smile, a dazzling smile you've heard compared to sunshine in more earnest and lame pickup lines.  They nod and you feel his gaze on you for a moment, but keep walking, thinking of the blue on his lips and the Scotch on his breath.

 

The reap goes quickly.  You hear the name (A. Brightmen) over a cell phone as the woman argues over a bill while walking her dog.  A.  Brightmen's dog breaks his collar and runs into the street.  A. Brightmen follows.  The garbage truck had no time to stop and she makes a rather messy stain on the street and then looks at you in disbelief. 

 

"Am I dead?" she asks, her eyes wild.

 

"Yes," you say, looking away from the mess, your chest aching.

 

"But Jackie wasn't hit?" she demands and you point to the scene, where Jackie the dog is nosing what remains of her face.  The woman lets out a strangled sound and you walk away.  She follows, looking for comfort, but you have none to give today.  You're too full, too heart-weary.  Your hand is still at your throat, missing something you never had. 

 

Her lights come and she looks at you one last time.  You wave but then stop and the question falls from your mouth before you realize it. "What's your first name?"

 

"Amelia," she says distractedly, her eyes lit up with wonder as her lights bathe her in a blueish white glow.  You feel rapture bathing your skin, but it is borrowed, not your own and it leaves you cold. 

 

"I'm sorry you died," you say, but the words are lost as the lights take Amelia to her destination.  The glow fades and you're left in a pale, sunlit street with the sound of sirens and people shouting in your ears. 

 

You close your eyes, the chaos around you fading somewhat with the darkness on the inside of your eyelids. 

 

The familiar scent of coffee and Scotch reaches your nostrils moments before a warm, gloved hand falls on your shoulder.  You sigh in relief and the hand at your throat, which you realized you've been clenching hard, is drawn away.  The skin there feels like fire and you know there are crescent marks from your nails on the pale skin.  He tangles his fingers with yours and you open your eyes to greet him. 

 

He stares at you, unspeaking, hung over and all wrong, but it doesn't matter.  He's here, solid and with that look you long for in his gaze.  Your reflection fills his eyes and shines back at you.  You like the look of yourself in his gaze. 

 

You kiss him again, suddenly.  Your muscles move without warning and your mouth fits over his, perfectly. 

 

He tastes like Scotch, coffee and Der Waffle Haus waffles and the combination is pleasing and private, a taste you'll always attribute to him and this moment, so much like the first one, when you didn't know what you were doing, but just that you had to do it.  His stubble razes your skin and you respond to it by moving closer, wrapping your arms around his neck.

 

His hands smooth across your back and for several long moments, there is nothing else.  Just you and he and the relief from the burden of your weary soul.  You finally pull away and when you do, he's looking at you in open surprise, like he can't believe what you've done. 

 

"Is there something you want to say?" he asks in his soft brogue. 

 

"Not today," you say, though you both know that's not true.  He nods anyway and that tiny smile curves his lips, which are pink from your lipstick.

 

"When?"

 

"Someday." Your voice is soft, full of anguish you can't disguise and don't want to.  He sees it all, sees you and wants to protect the parts he sees.  You take his hand once more. "Come on."

 

He lets you lead him down the street, though you don't know where you're going.  You know he doesn't either and that comforts you, somehow. 

 

(end)

 

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