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ozmissageTitle: we couldn’t bring the columns down
Pairing: George/Lia
Rating: PG-13
Words: 852
Disclaimer: Not mine. Title gakked off of Regina Speftor.
Warnings: Dark themes. Written circa-3.03 so AU, but may still be considered spoilery for s3 as a whole. Read at your own discretion.
Summary: He knows now that sometimes walking away is the only merciful thing to do.
A/N: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mollivanders at stainofmylove’s Valentine’s Day fic exchange.
He leaves.
After.
The baby isn’t born yet, he knows he’ll never see its face. He was raised to believe that good men don’t walk away. He knows now that sometimes walking away is the only merciful thing to do.
She follows him, the ghost. Not Annie. The other one.
“Where will you go?” she asks, leaning against the brick wall of the train station. George doesn’t look up. He hates looking at her, hates remembering. He wishes she would leave him be.
“I don’t know,” George says even though the he does.
Scotland; back to the beginning, straight on to the end.
“It’ll be good for you,” she says. “A bit of a holiday. Clear your head.”
*
The room is as garish as he remembered. Wallpaper as far as the eye can see, paper roses snaking halfway up the wall only to nose dive back down again. He didn’t want to stay here. He wanted to stay somewhere posh, somewhere with actual heating capabilities.
They outvoted him, his old friends, mates from university. They made jokes about good ole George, so afraid of roughing it.
He smirks to himself.
If only they could see him now.
Lia stretches across his bed, props her chin in her hands.
“Are you sure this is where you want to stay?”
“Yes,” George says. “I’m absolutely sure.”
“It’s pretty brutal. And I think the flowers are moving.”
“That’s a trick of the light,” George says. “They put foil in the wallpaper.”
Lia rolls her eyes.
“You’re one of those guys then.”
“What guys?”
“The ones who know everything.”
“I’m really not,” George says sinking to the edge of the bed to join Lia in watching the fake flowers grow.
*
He walks the moors at night thinking of the last time, of Tully, of Nina, of Mitchell, as the cold air stings his lungs.
She trails along behind him not saying a word.
*
“I didn’t make it happen, you know,” she says defensively after they’ve returned to the room. “I was just the messenger. Not that I’m sorry. He took too much, George. People…there are things they shouldn’t do.”
George tucks his hands into his sweatshirt, studies her face in the darkness. She looks almost nervous, fingers fidgeting with her hair. God, she’s young.
“I know that,” he says and she nods, reaches for the remote.
“Wanna see what’s on the telly?”
*
If he were stronger, he would have ended it by now.
He’s a loaded gun. He’s a bullet.
He’s a dog that needs to be put down.
But she’s always there.
Always watching.
*
He changes in the woods, a rush of fear shooting through his veins right before the wolf takes hold.
This is how it all started. In these woods, under a full moon, just like some awful film he stayed up late to watch when he was a kid. Only it was real. It still is.
He wakes, squinting against the morning light, the taste of blood on his lips.
“Poor bunny,” Lia whispers.
And George laughs. A short, strangled sound, but a laugh all the same. Lia cocks her head to one side, dark hair falling across her eyes like a curtain.
“You have a morbid sense of humor, you know that?”
George reaches for his bag, suddenly desperate for something to cover himself.
“It’s better the bunny than a…you know, a person,” the word catches in his throat. Lia doesn’t notice. She’s too busy grinning at him. “What?”
“I made you laugh,” she says. “It’s been ages since I’ve made anyone laugh. My little brother thinks I’m hilarious. I put straws in my nose once and pretended to be a walrus and he laughed so hard he literally fell out of his chair. He’s the real clown though. Always joking, always up for a laugh… ”
Her voice trails off as she swipes away a tear.
In the old days, George would have pressed further, would have offered to listen, would have asked questions.
He would have cared more.
He counts it as a victory that he cares at all.
“Let’s go,” he says, pulling his t-shirt over his mud-caked skin.
*
“Why are you here?” George asks.
There’s no hesitation.
“Because I’m afraid of what you would do if I wasn’t.”
*
“I think I’ve seen enough of Scotland,” George announces after his shower.
Lia looks skeptical.
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’m very sure. There are other places, better places even. I made a list.”
“A proper list? No one does that,” Lia says.
“I do. I make lists. They’re tidy.”
“Alright then, let’s see it.”
George presses a crumpled sheet of paper into her hand, his fingers brushing against her cold skin. She reads the list aloud, nose crinkling at certain places, lips curling into a smile at others.
He seems to be the one doing the watching now.
*
They leave.
Together, in a manner of speaking.
Lia takes his hand as they wait for the train and George finds that he has no desire to pull away.
“Where to next?” she asks.
Pairing: George/Lia
Rating: PG-13
Words: 852
Disclaimer: Not mine. Title gakked off of Regina Speftor.
Warnings: Dark themes. Written circa-3.03 so AU, but may still be considered spoilery for s3 as a whole. Read at your own discretion.
Summary: He knows now that sometimes walking away is the only merciful thing to do.
A/N: Written for
mollivanders at stainofmylove’s Valentine’s Day fic exchange. He leaves.
After.
The baby isn’t born yet, he knows he’ll never see its face. He was raised to believe that good men don’t walk away. He knows now that sometimes walking away is the only merciful thing to do.
She follows him, the ghost. Not Annie. The other one.
“Where will you go?” she asks, leaning against the brick wall of the train station. George doesn’t look up. He hates looking at her, hates remembering. He wishes she would leave him be.
“I don’t know,” George says even though the he does.
Scotland; back to the beginning, straight on to the end.
“It’ll be good for you,” she says. “A bit of a holiday. Clear your head.”
*
The room is as garish as he remembered. Wallpaper as far as the eye can see, paper roses snaking halfway up the wall only to nose dive back down again. He didn’t want to stay here. He wanted to stay somewhere posh, somewhere with actual heating capabilities.
They outvoted him, his old friends, mates from university. They made jokes about good ole George, so afraid of roughing it.
He smirks to himself.
If only they could see him now.
Lia stretches across his bed, props her chin in her hands.
“Are you sure this is where you want to stay?”
“Yes,” George says. “I’m absolutely sure.”
“It’s pretty brutal. And I think the flowers are moving.”
“That’s a trick of the light,” George says. “They put foil in the wallpaper.”
Lia rolls her eyes.
“You’re one of those guys then.”
“What guys?”
“The ones who know everything.”
“I’m really not,” George says sinking to the edge of the bed to join Lia in watching the fake flowers grow.
*
He walks the moors at night thinking of the last time, of Tully, of Nina, of Mitchell, as the cold air stings his lungs.
She trails along behind him not saying a word.
*
“I didn’t make it happen, you know,” she says defensively after they’ve returned to the room. “I was just the messenger. Not that I’m sorry. He took too much, George. People…there are things they shouldn’t do.”
George tucks his hands into his sweatshirt, studies her face in the darkness. She looks almost nervous, fingers fidgeting with her hair. God, she’s young.
“I know that,” he says and she nods, reaches for the remote.
“Wanna see what’s on the telly?”
*
If he were stronger, he would have ended it by now.
He’s a loaded gun. He’s a bullet.
He’s a dog that needs to be put down.
But she’s always there.
Always watching.
*
He changes in the woods, a rush of fear shooting through his veins right before the wolf takes hold.
This is how it all started. In these woods, under a full moon, just like some awful film he stayed up late to watch when he was a kid. Only it was real. It still is.
He wakes, squinting against the morning light, the taste of blood on his lips.
“Poor bunny,” Lia whispers.
And George laughs. A short, strangled sound, but a laugh all the same. Lia cocks her head to one side, dark hair falling across her eyes like a curtain.
“You have a morbid sense of humor, you know that?”
George reaches for his bag, suddenly desperate for something to cover himself.
“It’s better the bunny than a…you know, a person,” the word catches in his throat. Lia doesn’t notice. She’s too busy grinning at him. “What?”
“I made you laugh,” she says. “It’s been ages since I’ve made anyone laugh. My little brother thinks I’m hilarious. I put straws in my nose once and pretended to be a walrus and he laughed so hard he literally fell out of his chair. He’s the real clown though. Always joking, always up for a laugh… ”
Her voice trails off as she swipes away a tear.
In the old days, George would have pressed further, would have offered to listen, would have asked questions.
He would have cared more.
He counts it as a victory that he cares at all.
“Let’s go,” he says, pulling his t-shirt over his mud-caked skin.
*
“Why are you here?” George asks.
There’s no hesitation.
“Because I’m afraid of what you would do if I wasn’t.”
*
“I think I’ve seen enough of Scotland,” George announces after his shower.
Lia looks skeptical.
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’m very sure. There are other places, better places even. I made a list.”
“A proper list? No one does that,” Lia says.
“I do. I make lists. They’re tidy.”
“Alright then, let’s see it.”
George presses a crumpled sheet of paper into her hand, his fingers brushing against her cold skin. She reads the list aloud, nose crinkling at certain places, lips curling into a smile at others.
He seems to be the one doing the watching now.
*
They leave.
Together, in a manner of speaking.
Lia takes his hand as they wait for the train and George finds that he has no desire to pull away.
“Where to next?” she asks.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 3/20/11 08:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 3/21/11 03:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 3/20/11 08:42 pm (UTC)“I do. I make lists. They’re tidy.”
Beautifully written, and their voices are spot on here ♥
no subject
Date: 3/21/11 03:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 3/21/11 08:57 am (UTC)“I do. I make lists. They’re tidy.”
I love this line. So George! ♥
no subject
Date: 3/21/11 02:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 4/4/11 11:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 4/11/11 04:18 pm (UTC)