Dead Like Me: Clockwork (George/Mason | T | 325w)
[ George/Mason | T | 325w | 2007-08-30 | Mirror ]
Mason and a twirly straw are a dangerous combination.
Clockwork
“Would you put down the twirly straw already?”
“But I like my twirly straw,” Mason countered reasonably, twirling his twirly straw. He held it up to the light and squinted, looking into the bottom of the semi-transparent red plastic tube.
“Put. the. fucking. thing. down. now.” The fork glinted in George’s tight grip. Mason didn’t notice.
“No need to get uppity. ’M just havin’ a little fun.” He balanced the straw on the tip of his nose. “If you get it just right, it’s like having those colored sunglasses. Turns everything pink.”
“Yes, I’m sure you love your rose-colored glasses, Mason-”
“-rose-colored glasses, hey, that’s a good one, Georgie-”
“-but I bought you lunch because I wanted to talk to you, not watch you-whatever the hell you’re doing.”
“Talk? What about? Having some more froggy dreams?”
George reared back. “How did you know?”
Mason tapped his temple with the straw, nodding ponderously. “Sharp as a tack, I am.” He leaned back, picking up his fork and scarfing down a bite of maple-drenched banana bonanza pancake. “And you tell ’em to me every Monday. It’s how I’ve been keeping track of the days.”
She tilted her head to the side, hair falling over her shoulder. “I have?”
“Froggy clockwork, love. If I had a watch-for more than a few hours, that is-I’d set it by you.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmmm,” he replied, imbuing the syllable with depth by stretching it out and accompanying it with two raised eyebrows.
“I wonder why I always tell you,” she muttered to herself, cutting up her pancakes with far more intentness than the task required.
“That’s easy.” Mason smiled, poking her on the tip of the nose with his straw. “I’m your best friend.”
“Ugh.” George got a sour look on her face, and started eating her pancakes quickly. But she didn’t disagree, which in George’s book was nearly an agreement.
Mason and a twirly straw are a dangerous combination.
Clockwork
“Would you put down the twirly straw already?”
“But I like my twirly straw,” Mason countered reasonably, twirling his twirly straw. He held it up to the light and squinted, looking into the bottom of the semi-transparent red plastic tube.
“Put. the. fucking. thing. down. now.” The fork glinted in George’s tight grip. Mason didn’t notice.
“No need to get uppity. ’M just havin’ a little fun.” He balanced the straw on the tip of his nose. “If you get it just right, it’s like having those colored sunglasses. Turns everything pink.”
“Yes, I’m sure you love your rose-colored glasses, Mason-”
“-rose-colored glasses, hey, that’s a good one, Georgie-”
“-but I bought you lunch because I wanted to talk to you, not watch you-whatever the hell you’re doing.”
“Talk? What about? Having some more froggy dreams?”
George reared back. “How did you know?”
Mason tapped his temple with the straw, nodding ponderously. “Sharp as a tack, I am.” He leaned back, picking up his fork and scarfing down a bite of maple-drenched banana bonanza pancake. “And you tell ’em to me every Monday. It’s how I’ve been keeping track of the days.”
She tilted her head to the side, hair falling over her shoulder. “I have?”
“Froggy clockwork, love. If I had a watch-for more than a few hours, that is-I’d set it by you.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmmm,” he replied, imbuing the syllable with depth by stretching it out and accompanying it with two raised eyebrows.
“I wonder why I always tell you,” she muttered to herself, cutting up her pancakes with far more intentness than the task required.
“That’s easy.” Mason smiled, poking her on the tip of the nose with his straw. “I’m your best friend.”
“Ugh.” George got a sour look on her face, and started eating her pancakes quickly. But she didn’t disagree, which in George’s book was nearly an agreement.