Title ; through our undead eyes
Rating ; pg-13. 'cause I curse once.. =P
Word Count ; 938
Summary ; Sometimes, he watches her
Characters ; George, Mason and couple of mentions.
Spoilers ; No real spoilers for anything, other that they're dead, and reaping.
Disclaimer ; All I own is the first season boxset. I'm too broke to afford the second. ><;
Author's Note ; for hazyflights for her general awesomeness, and because she actually convinced to post this. I don't write fanfic often, and when I do, it's never ever seen by others. This was a rare exception. Thanks to Christine for the read through. Please excuse any out-of-character-ness. Its my first time writing these two. Feedback is everything.
Sometimes, he watches her when he knows she's not looking.
Like in the early hours of the morning on the nights she has trouble sleeping. She curls her feet under her and sits with his feet on her lap, perched atop his makeshift bed, watching a muted tv and watching the lights dance around the darkness. She assumes he's asleep, but he's always been about as big of an insomniac as her. He cracks one of his eyelids, and watches her small frame as she mouths the words to the rerun of Law & Order. He'll never tell her, but he loves the way her mouth forms the syllables, and her soft whispers that pass through her pouty lips.
Like when they're eating breakfast at Der Waffle House, his long arm wrapped around his leg as he sits across from her at their usual booth. She's sitting across from him, holding a glass of orange juice to her lips as Daisy babbles on about her hair and some b-list actor she blew once on a blue moon.
There is an amused twist of lips that could be called a smirk if you look at her in a different light, but she's tilting her head and making a sassy reply to Daisy's story, eyes shining with a sarcastic gleam.
Daisy pauses momentarily to mutter a light Georgia, while shaking her head as if the younger undead woman should understand completely that while she's talking, George is not to interrupt.
Their apparent father figure, the leader of their little merry band of reapers, chooses that moment to makes his appearance. Rube slides into the seat beside him and opens his date book and slaps down those little yellow square notes that will forever change lives in front of them. George yanks it from the table and pulls on her jacket and gloves and says a light farewell and bounds off to work. And he watches the young girl wonder away from the table walking her usual light footed swagger.
Like when she's talking softly to a soon-to-be-dead young woman of only sixteen at a soccer game in the middle of a park, running a smooth hand, one that he's only felt a few times, along her forearm. She smiles politely and wanders off to the sidelines and waits. Mason ambles over to her seconds later, and attempts to make her smile, but her dark eyes are glued to the young girl who is about to die. Her eyes glisten with the first signs of tears, even though she'll never let them fall, as she watches the petite girl take a shot at a goal. The little graveling crawls the length of the pole that stands as the corner of the goal, as the ball hits it and bounces directly back to the young woman, knocking her in the face. She falls back, her head bashing the ground, blood spilling out of her skull and onto the soft blond hair and the dark green grass. George screws her eyes shut, and turns to face the sun, her features lightened with the rays of light, the soft breeze tossing her long locks around her face.
“George,” He murmurs, touching her cotton covered shoulder, fingertips ghosting over the fabric like its familiar with it's twisted lines the threads are weaved in.
“I'm fine, Mason.”
Mason chuckles, bitterly, “Yeah, Georgie, me too.”
George turns her soft brown eyes on him, nodding slightly, before looking out at the field, a crowd surrounding the young woman's body. Her soul is screaming at the crowd, trying to get someone to see her. George gives him a soft look as she tucks her windblown hair into her hat, and walks over to talk to the young soul. He watches her go, and watches her comfort the girl. Her usual badass attitude is nowhere to be seen, as she whispers soothing words, and lets her softer side out, something that he's only ever seen her use with the younger souls she reaps. She can't stand to watch them die, knowing how little life they've had. How little life she had. He knows that she wishes there was some way to make it better, but she's learned by now that the rules are there for a reason... though she'll always try and break the ones that cause the least damage.
Like when he goes and gets so drunk and ends up passing out on her entryway floor. She trips over him the next morning, and she curses until she's blue in the face, making him crack a lid and wonder silently if she knows how to shut up. She notices that he's awake and hazy with a slight hangover, when she pulls on a lanky arm, pulling him to his knees and then to his feet. She forces him to follow her into the living room, where she settles him on the couch, on his side, so he doesn't choke on his own vomit, she murmurs, before rushing out of the room and arriving minutes later with a metal bucket. He watches as she fusses over his blankets and making sure he's comfortable before she finally smacks him across the back of the head. Bloody hell! He calls aloud, when she smiles blandly. Go to sleep, Mason. He watches as she sits on the arm rest by his feet and turns on the tv, an infomercial flashing onto the formerly dark screen. She is the last thing he sees before his passes back into his hangover stupor.
What he doesn't see is that she watches him too.