Fish n' Chips; (Simon/Alisha , T)
Title: Fish n’ Chips
Fandom: Misfits
Pairing: Simon/Alisha
Rating: T (for language)
Spoilers: everything until 2x07
Word Count: 2,040
Summary: “Houses and settings aside, she’s done with this shit, with waiting on pavements and gazing into windows like some wanker.”
A/N: Written for rubberbisquit (I’m so sorry this took so long! I hope it lives up to your expectations ^_^) for fandomaid .
~*~
“The shortest distance between two points
is the line from me to you…”
Between Two Points- The Glitch Mob
~*~
She couldn’t tell even herself what brought her here today, what compelled her to pick up the phone, call in sick, and make her way to the house she’s spent more time than she’ll ever admit to monitoring. Anything and everything acts as a legitimate reason to tread the pavements of this street with its neatly trimmed lawns and its large, loosely uniform houses.
It makes sense for a family like his to live in a neighborhood like this, for someone like him to grow up here with his prim hair and his leather bag in hand. It’s nice, it really is. But the setting is all wrong, doesn’t speak to her the way his flat, with its insane clocks and their pictures littering the walls so easily does..
Houses and settings aside, she’s done with this shit, with waiting on pavements and gazing into windows like some fuckin’ wanker. Quite frankly, if there was a smidgen of logic to this entire mess, the roles would be reversed: he’d be the one standing in front of her (their) complex with frozen fingers and feet to match.
Fuck it. She pats the snow flakes out of her hair, her hands glistening in their aftermath, and puts one foot in front of the other until she’s at his doorstep ringing the bell.
It throws her for the smallest of seconds that he is the one who greets her and not one of his parents (not that she’d have much to say to either one of them anyway).
He does nothing to ease the tension, just stands there with his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape. Her heart can’t help but flutter because he looks so much like him. He is him. Except he isn’t (not yet).
“Fuck’s sake, are you gonna invite me in or not?” She nearly snaps. “I’m freezing my arse off.”
It takes him longer than it should to swallow his surprise, to step aside in a fumbling gesture of welcome. Whatever, she takes it, moves past him into the foyer and turns to find his eyes still trained on her; electric blue and brimming with questions she’s beginning to doubt she will ever answer.
“Come on then,” she shakes her head, her voice losing much of its edge, softening in a way she has reserved from him and only him (except, he isn’t him).
He finally shuts the door, lingers behind it for a fraction of time before finally moving past her and silently leading the way into the living room. The inside of this room is not a complete surprise to her (although that should be a surprise in and of itself). But there are still the parts that even window watching could not do justice-the antique vase just beside the foyer, the assortment of family photos so unlike the ones that occupy the walls of her-their-flat.
Her feet, as if of their own volition, move towards the framed photographs resting atop the fireplace. There’s one that catches her eye almost instantly-an older one in which the boy looks nothing and everything like the young man that’s treading so carefully behind her; his fisted hand rubbing one of his eyes, his head bowed in an effort to make himself scarce-to disappear.
He says something behind her, but it doesn’t register, not right away-this boy from the past has captured her in a way this boy from the present hasn’t. But she turns to him anyway, determined to lay down the foundation of their bridge. Whatever it takes, yeah?
“Would you like some tea?”
“Yeah,” she gives him a small smile. “Tea’s good.”
His eyes hold steady for a second longer before he disappears towards the kitchen (not before sparing her another glance, of course).
She takes the opportunity to wander, idly running her fingers over the pristine surfaces of everything this room has to offer. She wonders if they ever actually make any use of it, because really there’s no way a room would be this neat if that were the case (except she knows they must-she’s seen it).
He’s back long before she actually takes notice and she wonders briefly is he pulled some fuckin’ invisibility shit on her just because he could.
“The tea-it’ll be ready soon.”
And it’s like that that all her suspicions about his potential abuse of power are laid to rest because this boy does not think he has any-freaky storm induced or otherwise. She supposes he isn’t too far off the mark right now, but soon enough he will be and she’s nearly sick and fuckin’ tired of waiting for that day to grace them with its presence.
“You know what? Fuck it,” she blurts as the corners of her lips turn up slightly.
“The tea,” she adds quickly at the site of his impossibly wide eyes and bobbing adam’s apple--So quick to assume the absolute fuckin’ worse.
“You don’t like it? The tea-that is?”
“No, no it’s fine really,” she extends her hand, ready to soothe him with her touch-until he takes a step back, brings his fear of the slightest brush front and center.
It stings, still does every time. Even with her hands encased in woolen gloves, the very idea of her bare touch (of her) is alarming-always will be until a point unknown to her or him or any of them and it’s all fucked really, every bit of it.
“I just think It’d be nice if we went out for lunch,” she pushes on, couldn’t drop it if she tried (and she has).
The uneasiness hangs between them, unsaid words and unspoken questions shouting loudly in their ears. She feels for this boy from the present-she knows she does-with this face and those eyes and those lips. Not in the same way she did (will) for that man, but it’s something and nothing is anything if not something.
~*~
They head to a local place, a pub of sorts (they steer clear of her workplace though). It’s dim, the midday sun’s presence unknown, and she likes it here more than she did his sunlit living room with its calculated arrangements and its impossibly clean surfaces. She’s sure he’ll come to prefer this place too.
“Fish n’ chips then?” She asks him after he’s spent a good five minutes with his eyes darting back and forth between the menu and her face in a way only they can.
“Simon?”
“Why did you come here?” He wants to know, has every right to and she won’t (can’t) really tell him.
“To fuckin’ eat,” she nearly snaps again under the weight of his questions and the burden of her knowledge.
“Why did you come here-with me?”
“Fuck’s sake Simon, does it matter? We’re here now and I’m hungry so could we please just fuckin’ eat or somethin’?”
It’s a lash, a plea, a way out of this mess of an afternoon. He takes it, swallows his suspicion and looks down at his menu, and she feels like pure shit.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be a bitch again-“
“You’re not a bitch. You never were.”
Except she is, always has been and she knows it-everyone does. She has a half a mind to leave, to erase this pitiful excuse for an attempt at something she can’t even fuckin’ name from both their minds.
Instead she smiles, small and feeble, and it’s almost worth it when he smiles back.
“What do you like-to eat-here?”
“Fish n’ chips,” she tells him. “You?”
“Fish and chips,” he tells her.
It’s the first thing she discovers they have in common.
~*~
“You don’t like it?” He asks, snaps her right out of her less than pleasant thoughts.
“Don’t like what?”
“The food-you’ve stopped eating,” he adds the last part by way of explanation, the same way he always does.
“No, it’s fine, yeah?”
He nods his answer (one of many) still left unanswered. The silence settles between them again and she’ll be damned if she lets it get comfortable.
“So what’re your plans? You know-for the future?”
It’s the first thing she comes up with, the only thing she really wants to know right now because it’s only then that any of this will make sense.
He swallows, looks down and takes more than a few seconds to answer and she’s more curious than ever. After all, it can’t be too long now…
“Come on then,” she prompts, all quirked lips and flirty eyes.
The effect it has on him is far from ideal because her playfulness only escalates his discomfort. If he was hesitant before, he’s fuckin’ tongue tied now.
“Look, you’re the one who said we were all friends, yeah?” she asks, hopes this more open approach will elicit a better response from him.
And it does because he nods, his eyes meeting her own and staying there.
“Well, this is what friends do, they talk about themselves, their futures, whatever the fuck they want.”
“They go out for fish and chips,” he offers, still not quite as confident as she would (will) like him to be, but an improvement nonetheless.
“They go out for fish n’ chips,” she agrees.
“I think I-we-are meant to do something with our powers. That’s all I can think about when I think of the future-our purpose.”
He says it with such conviction, such confidence, she’s almost certain for the briefest of seconds that he knows exactly what’s to come. It doesn’t escape her, the knowledge that a few months ago she would have laughed in his face, made some cruel joke about how he thinks he’s fuckin’ Spiderman or some shit, and she hates herself for it.
“I don’t see what the fuck I can do with my powers, really?” There’s no bitter edge to it, just a quiet resignation that surprises even her (this day is chock full of fuckin’ surprises).
“It’s hard for you-I can tell.”
No shit. She can’t bring herself to snap at him again though, so she just looks down at her unfinished food (she’s down to the chips now, has always liked to save them for last). She knows it won’t always be like this, but she can’t tell him that-can’t assure him that there won’t be any need to pity her for much longer (or at least she can’t imagine it taking much longer).
“I think you have it the hardest out of all of us, with your powers.”
She looks up then only to have his eyes bore into hers. Her breath catches then because there’s something so familiar, so him, about the boldness of his stare it throws her off, unnerves her.
“I’ve always admired you for it-for handling it they way you do.”
“I don’t handle it all that well Simon,” she smiles slightly and she can’t deny how flattering she finds his admiration, how refreshing she finds his understanding.
“You do, I think you do,” he insists.
“What have these powers done for any of us really, ‘sides turn us into a freak sideshow,” she scoffs, again, more resigned than anything else.
“They saved our lives. Multiple times.”
“We wouldn’t have needed saving if that fucked storm never happened, if we never had them in the first place,” she retorts.
They’re arguing, or as close to arguing as they’ll get at this point, and she’s delighted. It’s a step forward, it’s familiar ground. It’s them.
“There’s a reason we have them, why all of this has happened,” he’s so sure, so intense she almost looks away. But she doesn’t, she won’t, because she should be able not to.
When she finally does look back at her food, she sneaks a peek at his plate and sees that he’s left his chips for last, his fish nowhere to be found.
She’s certain then, more than she can remember being in a while, that it’s only a matter of time.
~*~