"Lost Art" by realitycek

Lost Art

by realitycek

Pairing: M/K

Rated: T

Summary: There's a language to more than flowers.

Disclaimer: Property of Ten-Thirteen and 20th Century Fox. Technically.

Author's Notes: This snippet appeared in response to Sue's schmoop craving. That'll teach her.

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Without warning, the rain really starts coming down, and I crack the vent to keep the windows from fogging. No attention, no surprises...no obstruction of my view of your front windows. Not quite dawn, and it's too damn cold even with the heater going. Just as well. It's been a long night already, and I've been parked here almost three hours now, ever since your cab pulled up and you dragged yourself in the door, back from wherever it was you were tilting at your latest windmill. Lights on, lights off, jumpy reflected glow of the TV, and I'm down here trying to stay awake thinking about you up there... Wouldn't do to doze off now. You know, you could really use a Neighbourhood Watch around here, because the police patrols suck. Only one cruiser's been by this whole time. Christ, I could be anybody out here...

Oh. Yeah. Right.

Turn up the radio a bit... Anyway, I'm sitting here thinking, wondering if you threw your bag down as soon as you got inside and just sacked out. Whether you even got around to taking off your coat, or if you left a trail of clothes from the door to the couch, and are curled up there right now with your cable nightlight, just the way I like you. The way I remember. Seven months, one week, two days -- give or take, I've done too much hopping of the dateline since then to be entirely sure. I can just picture the look you'd get if you heard that...no. The look you would have gotten. But, see, you weren't all I lost that night; there's no way I'd forget. And who the hell am I trying to kid...?

Fuck, even the coffee's cold by now, and there's no sane reason for me still to be sitting down here, staring up at your windows and working on a doomed woody. I take the package from the passenger seat and stash it inside my jacket before making the diagonal dash across the street, just in time to meet that old lady from the second floor getting back from walking that psychotic little dog of hers. It's standing there shivering, in a little hooded poncho and booties, small wonder it's got problems. Big smile, hold the door while she closes her umbrella and gives me that look like she knows she ought to know me, and that's good enough (I'm telling you, man: Neighbourhood Watch).

They beeline straight for the elevator while I'm still wiping my feet like a gentleman. No wet, muddy boot prints to tip anyone off, and I head up the stairwell... Damn, I'm checking out your hallway, and I'm almost nervous. But, not a soul, not a sound, and now I'm standing in front of your door.

I reach out to touch the fingertips of one hand to it, wondering for a split second if I'd be able to pick up some bizarre vibe if I didn't have my gloves on, and then I snap out of it. Listening to the muted mumble of the tube from inside, almost imagining I can hear you breathing just those few yards away, and I know you still might wake up at any time...but, oh yes, I glance at that flimsy lock and the temptation is there...

Instead, I get the envelope from my jacket and smooth it out. Not a lot, nothing you could trace, but enough to let you put a major dent in that document-counterfeiting outfit you've been trying to nail. It's okay, it's nobody I use anyway... I set it flat on the floor, step back and look, then lean it standing against the doorjamb. Yeah, that's it.

I'll be long gone before you see it, and it will be a long time before you're ready to understand, and recognise these leadsfor what they are. But it's got to be just right. It's a neglected art, you know. Love letters...

End

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