[Dead Like Me] Mason(&George) Ficlet
Title: My Smile Still Stays On
Author: turquoisetumult
Rating: PG-13, for swearing
Word Count: 555
Characters/Pairings: Mason, George.
Genre: General.
Disclaimer: I don't own Dead Like Me or its characters.
Warning: This is unbeta-ed. But it should be a-okay to read considering English is my first language and all... Nevertheless, even though I reread it, if someone notices a mistake (typo or other), let me know and I’ll fix it.
Prompt: This Mason icon; chosen by brittyone
Summary: As Mason twirls in George’s chair, shooting at the moving object on the computer screensaver with the toy gun Crystal gave him, he briefly stops to shove a forkful of German chocolate cake into his mouth, and he thinks, "what a fool I’ve been." // But others don’t have to be. --> It's Mason's last day and he won't let George waste life away; insight into the Mason/George scene at Happy Time during episode 2x13.
Twenty-seven years old (plus thirty-eight more) and Mason finally realizes what the meaning of the word “waste” is.
It’s what his life (and unlife) has been comprised of. Wastefulness.
Thirty-eight years ago (no, more like one single day ago), he would’ve said he’d been living well. Mason didn’t need a partner, friends, family. His lover was a life of petty crime (he’s got fond memories of breaking into parking meters and rummaging through clothes of the dead), his friends went by the names of Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, (and, on good days with a pocketful of stolen cash, Johnnie Walker), and his family was the mish-mash of capsule bottles in a Ziploc bag (he sifts through its contents every morning and brings his favorites with him in his pockets).
As Mason twirls in George’s chair, shooting at the moving object on the computer screensaver with the toy gun Crystal gave him, he briefly stops to shove a forkful of German chocolate cake into his mouth, and he thinks, what a fool I’ve been.
But others don’t have to be.
He’s an idiot, he knows. He’s an idiot for wasting away the way he has, for trying to make up for it when there’s no time left to do so, but he’s gotta try anyway, right?
Fucked if he’s gonna let George staple or file (or who-the-fuck-cares-about-this-shit-anyway) the remainder of her undead life away.
“Actually, you know what, I’m gonna stay.” He turns back around to face George, adamant in his purpose and rambles, “And I wanna say something to you, and you’ve gotta listen.” He shakes her leg like a child performing a new feat, begging for attention, and he murmurs: “Please…”
His mouth is dry from the sweetness of the chocolate cake, there’s a tickle in his throat, his breathing becomes irregular (starts coming in pants at the end of every clause as if every spoken word is a struggle), and his knees start aching from his prolonged, unchanging stance.
He starts to break.
“You get close, George, you get close to everybody that ever meant anything to you.”
It doesn’t really come out the way he wanted it to. He wanted to make it more demanding and forceful, something that a father giving out orders (handwritten on little yellow post-its) would say. Instead, it comes out more urgent and pleading, a confusing mess of a sentence that makes George ask him about his drinking for the day.
Mason gives George a peck on the lips, and as swift as it was, he still feels her muscles around her mouth tense up nervously and he gives her funny smirk as he backs down.
“I really love you, Georgie.” His smile widens and then fades, lips twitching worriedly, like someone who’s just seen his little sister take her first step toward parental disobedience and personal independence. (He wishes he could hang around; maybe try and cover for her if she ever gets caught - if he’s sober enough to do so, that is.)
Mason knocks on her chair and says: “Let’s go for a ride.”
He spins the still-perplexed George in her chair, before turning ‘round the corner and making his exit (leaving wasted half-eaten cake behind on the counter; the irony escapes Mason).
He’s got his own ride to get on; it’s waiting for him.
A/N: Feedback is highly appreciated, whether it's complimentary or constructively critical. Thanks! Hope you all enjoyed the fic.
Author: turquoisetumult
Rating: PG-13, for swearing
Word Count: 555
Characters/Pairings: Mason, George.
Genre: General.
Disclaimer: I don't own Dead Like Me or its characters.
Warning: This is unbeta-ed. But it should be a-okay to read considering English is my first language and all... Nevertheless, even though I reread it, if someone notices a mistake (typo or other), let me know and I’ll fix it.
Prompt: This Mason icon; chosen by brittyone
Summary: As Mason twirls in George’s chair, shooting at the moving object on the computer screensaver with the toy gun Crystal gave him, he briefly stops to shove a forkful of German chocolate cake into his mouth, and he thinks, "what a fool I’ve been." // But others don’t have to be. --> It's Mason's last day and he won't let George waste life away; insight into the Mason/George scene at Happy Time during episode 2x13.
Twenty-seven years old (plus thirty-eight more) and Mason finally realizes what the meaning of the word “waste” is.
It’s what his life (and unlife) has been comprised of. Wastefulness.
Thirty-eight years ago (no, more like one single day ago), he would’ve said he’d been living well. Mason didn’t need a partner, friends, family. His lover was a life of petty crime (he’s got fond memories of breaking into parking meters and rummaging through clothes of the dead), his friends went by the names of Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, (and, on good days with a pocketful of stolen cash, Johnnie Walker), and his family was the mish-mash of capsule bottles in a Ziploc bag (he sifts through its contents every morning and brings his favorites with him in his pockets).
As Mason twirls in George’s chair, shooting at the moving object on the computer screensaver with the toy gun Crystal gave him, he briefly stops to shove a forkful of German chocolate cake into his mouth, and he thinks, what a fool I’ve been.
But others don’t have to be.
He’s an idiot, he knows. He’s an idiot for wasting away the way he has, for trying to make up for it when there’s no time left to do so, but he’s gotta try anyway, right?
Fucked if he’s gonna let George staple or file (or who-the-fuck-cares-about-this-shit-anyway) the remainder of her undead life away.
“Actually, you know what, I’m gonna stay.” He turns back around to face George, adamant in his purpose and rambles, “And I wanna say something to you, and you’ve gotta listen.” He shakes her leg like a child performing a new feat, begging for attention, and he murmurs: “Please…”
His mouth is dry from the sweetness of the chocolate cake, there’s a tickle in his throat, his breathing becomes irregular (starts coming in pants at the end of every clause as if every spoken word is a struggle), and his knees start aching from his prolonged, unchanging stance.
He starts to break.
“You get close, George, you get close to everybody that ever meant anything to you.”
It doesn’t really come out the way he wanted it to. He wanted to make it more demanding and forceful, something that a father giving out orders (handwritten on little yellow post-its) would say. Instead, it comes out more urgent and pleading, a confusing mess of a sentence that makes George ask him about his drinking for the day.
Mason gives George a peck on the lips, and as swift as it was, he still feels her muscles around her mouth tense up nervously and he gives her funny smirk as he backs down.
“I really love you, Georgie.” His smile widens and then fades, lips twitching worriedly, like someone who’s just seen his little sister take her first step toward parental disobedience and personal independence. (He wishes he could hang around; maybe try and cover for her if she ever gets caught - if he’s sober enough to do so, that is.)
Mason knocks on her chair and says: “Let’s go for a ride.”
He spins the still-perplexed George in her chair, before turning ‘round the corner and making his exit (leaving wasted half-eaten cake behind on the counter; the irony escapes Mason).
He’s got his own ride to get on; it’s waiting for him.
A/N: Feedback is highly appreciated, whether it's complimentary or constructively critical. Thanks! Hope you all enjoyed the fic.