Meet Me By the Water
Title: Meet Me By the Water (1/1)
Fandoms - Crossover: Grey's Anatomy, The Vampire Diaries
Pairing: Meredith Grey/Mason Lockwood
Rating/warning: R (mostly for recreational drug use)
Word count: 1296
Disclaimer: Here
Summary: Other than the satisfaction of being somewhere else she isn’t supposed to be, she’s not entirely certain what she expected from Florida. Set pre-series for both shows, and pre-werewolf for Mason.
A/N: Inspiration for this? When I entered the letters "mas" to pull up Mason Lockwood icons to use for a comment, alphabetical order gave me a Meredith Grey icon too. Obviously, I had to write them together . . . ! It's just a sketch, really, written because the idea of them intrigued me. Title and cut text are from Meet Me By the Water by Rachel Yamagata.
Other than the satisfaction of being somewhere else she isn’t supposed to be, Meredith’s not entirely certain what she expected from Florida.
Whatever it was, the state is failing to deliver.
She spends most of her time trading off the desire to drink tequila with the sweltering-weather-driven necessity to drink cold beverages by devouring frozen margaritas in the darker, cooler back areas of bars.
A few days ago, Sadie left the Emerald Coast for somewhere more cosmopolitan and a little personal space for both of them, taking with her the easy possibility of string-free sex and the drugs she always seems to find effortlessly. Now Meredith avoids sleeping with boys (or trying another girl) because that would require finding a new bar to skulk in the next day. Her skin burns if she so much as looks at a sunbeam; she doesn’t surf (which is all anyone seems to do here); she doesn’t want to swim; and she doesn’t know anyone to buy drugs from and can’t be bothered to search.
All she’s got, as far as recreation goes, are margaritas and relishing the fact that she’s not in med school yet. So, yeah . . . Florida pretty much sucks.
“Hey,” he says, slumping in the chair opposite her, without asking any kind of permission, jolting her out of her thoughts.
An expression of deliberate distaste crosses her face, which she’s pretty pleased with until her internal sanity monitor registers an alarm that she looks about as much like Ellis Grey at her most disapproving as you can with a pink streak in your hair, thick black eyeliner and close to four house special margaritas inside you.
Instead, face pulled into a fierce glare, she goes for, “You get that this table is occupied?”
He nods over a swig of his beer, swallows. “So are all the others.” His grin lights up eyes that wander over her face and body; that she schools herself not to notice are a startling shade of blue-green. “This was the only one that came with a cute girl.”
She rolls her eyes. His grin gets wider.
“Mason,” he says and holds out his hand.
Her eyes travel the length of his fingers, his hand, his very well muscled arm. He’s tan, sun blond, slightly damp and salty, wears a ratty t-shirt over a pair of wrinkled Hawaiian shorts adorned with vivid flowers.
Typical surfer. At least, as far as she can tell after eight days here.
He’s very pretty, but probably younger than her, and she’s on the point of responding, brushing him off again, when he drops his hand and shrugs, pulls a paperback that’s definitely seen better days and more than one soaking from the backpack at his feet.
“You’ll warm up to me,” he says, mostly confident, shot through with a nuance of self-doubt, then settles back in his chair with his beer and the book.
White Fang, by Jack London.
She read Call of the Wild in high school. She hadn’t liked it much. She squints at the creased synopsis on the back of the book: something about the adventures of a hybrid wolf dog. Seriously? But he’s got her interest now, kind of.
She clears her throat. “Meredith,” she says, cringing inside at the awkwardness, outwardly maintaining her self-possession.
“Told you,” he says. “Pleased to meet you.” He holds out his hand again, this time she takes it. His grip almost crushes her hand, and she kind of likes it.
“Hybrid wolf dogs?” she asks, without any preamble.
He shrugs. “Research . . . sort of.”
“Oh, are you in vet school or . . . you know, whatever?” Apparently her kneejerk excitement over all things remotely medical is like a congenital tic; she’s careful to taper off into pretended disinterest at the end of the question.
“No,” he laughs. “I’m . . . nothing really. This is,” he lifts the book, then discards it on the table. “Family shit." He shrugs, smiles. "Family curse kinda thing.”
She raises an eyebrow, decides she might like to flirt. “Your family is a pack of hybrid wolf dogs?”
“Something like that.” He laughs again.
“So we have something in common,” she says. “Mine too.”
“Really?” There’s a kind of earnestness behind his question that she wonders about for a moment. She can’t figure it out, but it makes her like him a little bit more. Apparently he was right about the warming up part.
She shakes her head. “Only one half,” she says. “My mother. My father’s more of a lamb to the slaughter.” He relaxes, she drains her margarita and stands up. “I’m going to get a real drink,” she says. “You want something?”
He nods. She goes to the bar, makes a final decision that she’s breaking with the no sex in Florida thing. When she comes back to the table, she says,
“Just so you know, I’m kind of 'nothing really’ too.”
- - - - -
He lives in a beach shack. The ocean is right outside, waves rolling in against the shoreline, and the sound fills in any gaps in the conversation, creates a sense of fullness and intimacy, like they know each other, when really they don’t. Not even slightly. It’s the best of all possible worlds.
He rolls a huge spliff, lights it, offers it to her.
“I’d prefer cocaine,” she says, a little drunk by now, not really expecting any, but he finds some, left behind apparently, prepares it for her and hands it over, with a crisp twenty dollar bill.
“You’re not . . .?” she asks.
He declines. Says something about being too wired by nature and weed being more his thing.
She only does a little bit, but everything still dances beautifully. In a buzz of drugs and tequila, ocean sounds and breeze, and whatever it is they’re talking about, she thinks, in the background, maybe she’d like to start to be a doctor now.
Somehow his lips meet hers, taking her by surprise, her hands slide inside his shorts, conveniently loose, exploring hard abs, hard everything, and it’s all delicious. He smells like the sea. He’s easy to be with. He gets her - at least, enough. When they’re done, she drifts into a sort of reverie, lying next to him, and figures it’s okay. She doesn’t need to escape right now.
- - - - -
An hour or so later, she supposes, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, mood altered from friendly, sexy to what comes across to her as desolate, a frame of mind she's quite familiar with herself.
She can see everything in silver detail, because the moon is spilling over the bed, striated, dark and light, and she remembers, idly, from an hour spent amusing herself with her calendar, that it’s full tonight.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey.” His voice is muffled and he doesn’t turn around. She kneels upright and puts her arms around his neck from behind. After a second’s pause, he grabs her hands, kisses them. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “For still being here.”
She almost asks him what’s wrong, what he’s running from. But she knows she won’t reciprocate with a confession of her own and so, instead, she rests her head on his shoulder, skin on skin, and squeezes his hand.
- - - - -
In the morning, she doesn’t have to run, because he already has. Literally. There’s coffee and a note. Gone for a run. Later. Mason x.
When she goes in search of margaritas that evening, she changes bars, but only to one down the street. If it happens, she wouldn't mind hooking up with him again before she finally gives in and accepts her own -- what was it? -- oh, yeah, family curse kinda thing.
The one where she goes to med school despite the fact her mother wants her to.
Maybe Florida delivered after all.
Fandoms - Crossover: Grey's Anatomy, The Vampire Diaries
Pairing: Meredith Grey/Mason Lockwood
Rating/warning: R (mostly for recreational drug use)
Word count: 1296
Disclaimer: Here
Summary: Other than the satisfaction of being somewhere else she isn’t supposed to be, she’s not entirely certain what she expected from Florida. Set pre-series for both shows, and pre-werewolf for Mason.
A/N: Inspiration for this? When I entered the letters "mas" to pull up Mason Lockwood icons to use for a comment, alphabetical order gave me a Meredith Grey icon too. Obviously, I had to write them together . . . ! It's just a sketch, really, written because the idea of them intrigued me. Title and cut text are from Meet Me By the Water by Rachel Yamagata.
Other than the satisfaction of being somewhere else she isn’t supposed to be, Meredith’s not entirely certain what she expected from Florida.
Whatever it was, the state is failing to deliver.
She spends most of her time trading off the desire to drink tequila with the sweltering-weather-driven necessity to drink cold beverages by devouring frozen margaritas in the darker, cooler back areas of bars.
A few days ago, Sadie left the Emerald Coast for somewhere more cosmopolitan and a little personal space for both of them, taking with her the easy possibility of string-free sex and the drugs she always seems to find effortlessly. Now Meredith avoids sleeping with boys (or trying another girl) because that would require finding a new bar to skulk in the next day. Her skin burns if she so much as looks at a sunbeam; she doesn’t surf (which is all anyone seems to do here); she doesn’t want to swim; and she doesn’t know anyone to buy drugs from and can’t be bothered to search.
All she’s got, as far as recreation goes, are margaritas and relishing the fact that she’s not in med school yet. So, yeah . . . Florida pretty much sucks.
“Hey,” he says, slumping in the chair opposite her, without asking any kind of permission, jolting her out of her thoughts.
An expression of deliberate distaste crosses her face, which she’s pretty pleased with until her internal sanity monitor registers an alarm that she looks about as much like Ellis Grey at her most disapproving as you can with a pink streak in your hair, thick black eyeliner and close to four house special margaritas inside you.
Instead, face pulled into a fierce glare, she goes for, “You get that this table is occupied?”
He nods over a swig of his beer, swallows. “So are all the others.” His grin lights up eyes that wander over her face and body; that she schools herself not to notice are a startling shade of blue-green. “This was the only one that came with a cute girl.”
She rolls her eyes. His grin gets wider.
“Mason,” he says and holds out his hand.
Her eyes travel the length of his fingers, his hand, his very well muscled arm. He’s tan, sun blond, slightly damp and salty, wears a ratty t-shirt over a pair of wrinkled Hawaiian shorts adorned with vivid flowers.
Typical surfer. At least, as far as she can tell after eight days here.
He’s very pretty, but probably younger than her, and she’s on the point of responding, brushing him off again, when he drops his hand and shrugs, pulls a paperback that’s definitely seen better days and more than one soaking from the backpack at his feet.
“You’ll warm up to me,” he says, mostly confident, shot through with a nuance of self-doubt, then settles back in his chair with his beer and the book.
White Fang, by Jack London.
She read Call of the Wild in high school. She hadn’t liked it much. She squints at the creased synopsis on the back of the book: something about the adventures of a hybrid wolf dog. Seriously? But he’s got her interest now, kind of.
She clears her throat. “Meredith,” she says, cringing inside at the awkwardness, outwardly maintaining her self-possession.
“Told you,” he says. “Pleased to meet you.” He holds out his hand again, this time she takes it. His grip almost crushes her hand, and she kind of likes it.
“Hybrid wolf dogs?” she asks, without any preamble.
He shrugs. “Research . . . sort of.”
“Oh, are you in vet school or . . . you know, whatever?” Apparently her kneejerk excitement over all things remotely medical is like a congenital tic; she’s careful to taper off into pretended disinterest at the end of the question.
“No,” he laughs. “I’m . . . nothing really. This is,” he lifts the book, then discards it on the table. “Family shit." He shrugs, smiles. "Family curse kinda thing.”
She raises an eyebrow, decides she might like to flirt. “Your family is a pack of hybrid wolf dogs?”
“Something like that.” He laughs again.
“So we have something in common,” she says. “Mine too.”
“Really?” There’s a kind of earnestness behind his question that she wonders about for a moment. She can’t figure it out, but it makes her like him a little bit more. Apparently he was right about the warming up part.
She shakes her head. “Only one half,” she says. “My mother. My father’s more of a lamb to the slaughter.” He relaxes, she drains her margarita and stands up. “I’m going to get a real drink,” she says. “You want something?”
He nods. She goes to the bar, makes a final decision that she’s breaking with the no sex in Florida thing. When she comes back to the table, she says,
“Just so you know, I’m kind of 'nothing really’ too.”
- - - - -
He lives in a beach shack. The ocean is right outside, waves rolling in against the shoreline, and the sound fills in any gaps in the conversation, creates a sense of fullness and intimacy, like they know each other, when really they don’t. Not even slightly. It’s the best of all possible worlds.
He rolls a huge spliff, lights it, offers it to her.
“I’d prefer cocaine,” she says, a little drunk by now, not really expecting any, but he finds some, left behind apparently, prepares it for her and hands it over, with a crisp twenty dollar bill.
“You’re not . . .?” she asks.
He declines. Says something about being too wired by nature and weed being more his thing.
She only does a little bit, but everything still dances beautifully. In a buzz of drugs and tequila, ocean sounds and breeze, and whatever it is they’re talking about, she thinks, in the background, maybe she’d like to start to be a doctor now.
Somehow his lips meet hers, taking her by surprise, her hands slide inside his shorts, conveniently loose, exploring hard abs, hard everything, and it’s all delicious. He smells like the sea. He’s easy to be with. He gets her - at least, enough. When they’re done, she drifts into a sort of reverie, lying next to him, and figures it’s okay. She doesn’t need to escape right now.
- - - - -
An hour or so later, she supposes, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, mood altered from friendly, sexy to what comes across to her as desolate, a frame of mind she's quite familiar with herself.
She can see everything in silver detail, because the moon is spilling over the bed, striated, dark and light, and she remembers, idly, from an hour spent amusing herself with her calendar, that it’s full tonight.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey.” His voice is muffled and he doesn’t turn around. She kneels upright and puts her arms around his neck from behind. After a second’s pause, he grabs her hands, kisses them. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “For still being here.”
She almost asks him what’s wrong, what he’s running from. But she knows she won’t reciprocate with a confession of her own and so, instead, she rests her head on his shoulder, skin on skin, and squeezes his hand.
- - - - -
In the morning, she doesn’t have to run, because he already has. Literally. There’s coffee and a note. Gone for a run. Later. Mason x.
When she goes in search of margaritas that evening, she changes bars, but only to one down the street. If it happens, she wouldn't mind hooking up with him again before she finally gives in and accepts her own -- what was it? -- oh, yeah, family curse kinda thing.
The one where she goes to med school despite the fact her mother wants her to.
Maybe Florida delivered after all.