Mason, George, Daisy | 300 words
"I'd have let you be my boyfriend," George offers. "If I was still alive."
"Really?" Mason says hopefully.
"Yeah, you'd really piss my mom off. I like that in a guy." George considers this for a moment. "Not that I really put that much effort into annoying my mom. I just used to... kind of... sit."
This is not really going in the direction Mason wants it to go in.
"How about we play a game called 'Let's Not Smash Mason's Ego Into Fucking Little Tiny Pulpy Bits'?"
George takes another sip of her coffee. "...Nah."
"'Pulp'," Daisy echoes thoughtfully. "Anyone else want fresh orange juice?"
Mason lets his head smack onto the table. "No one loves me," he informs the hard, shiny surface. It tastes like disinfectant and kind of like syrup.
"It's called 'personal hygiene'," Daisy informs him in what she obviously thinks of as her 'kind and sympathetic' voice. It is neither kind nor sympathetic. "People like that."
"Would you like that?" Mason asks, raising his head a little. "Would you shag me if I showered more often?"
"...No," Daisy says delicately. "I have standards, sweetie."
Mason winces and puts his head back on the table. The table likes him; it isn't trying to shy away or anything. If only he was one of those sick fuckers who went in for inanimate objects; it’d be easier. He tilts his head slightly. "Georgie?"
"Don't look at me," George says quickly. "I only had sex for the first time like three months ago. And you wouldn't call me in the morning."
Mason thinks about this. "Actually, I'd probably never leave," he says.
George screws her face up in a mixture of horror and disgust.
"Not helping your case," Daisy pipes up.
Mason fucking hates absolutely everyone that he knows.
Arthur, Morgana [Arthur/Gwen] | 295 words | Set post 2x02
Arthur had rather thought that The Four Days Of Which We Do Not Speak (and by ‘we’ he means himself, Gwen – who can no longer look at Arthur at all – and Merlin – who has gone oddly quiet and didn’t even bother with the usual half-hearted recriminations after everyone was all cleaned up and back in their rightful positions, which was actually a little disconcerting) would just be some rather dream-like memories, which he would take out from time to time and brood over until they stung.
Of course, as with so many things in his life, he reckoned without Morgana.
She comes sweeping down on him in a cloud of purple velvet and muted fury two days after his supposed ‘return’; Arthur’s chest still hurts with a bone-deep ache. He takes one look at Morgana and suspects that there is a chance he will not make it out of here alive.
“I can explain,” he says quickly.
“No, you can’t,” Morgana replies sharply, and that’s when Arthur knows that she knows everything. He’d be angry with Gwen, but God knows she has no one else to talk to. Morgana studies him, his stricken expression, and her look of pure wrath softens a little. “You’re a fool, Arthur,” she tells him, sighing. “Well, at least this time you didn’t nearly get drowned.”
Arthur opens his mouth, but decides he doesn’t want to know. He’s had enough unwelcome truths these last few days.
“It would never have worked,” he tells Morgana, fingers curling at his side. Justifying himself in spite of it all.
“Actually,” she says in a voice that does not quite sound like her own, and she no longer seems to be talking to him, “I think you’ll be in love forever.”
Arthur can’t ask.
Owen, Ianto | 295 words
It’s three twenty-seven in the morning and if anyone actually knows why they’re all still in the Hub then they’re doing a really good job of keeping it secret. Not that any of this is new.
Ianto sighs. He doesn’t look any less anally neat than usual, but there’s a faint air of crumpled about him nonetheless.
“My purpose in life cannot be to hate you,” he mumbles at last.
It’s entirely possible the teaboy is drunk, but if he is then he’s hiding it well. At least, he’s hiding it better than Owen used to, when he first arrived here. Not that that’s much of an achievement when you stop and consider.
“No,” he agrees. And then grins his favourite bastard grin because emotional bonding was something that got stripped away a long time ago, right along with caring about things and smiling without it hurting. “Your purpose in life is to make coffee and tidy up and keep your mouth shut.”
Ianto’s expression doesn’t flicker, which isn’t a surprise. He’s getting better at swaddling all his emotions under a nice thick layer of blandness, which Owen is completely fine with because at least it keeps things quiet around here. And if their exhausted teaboy’s soul is cracking and peeling, if he’s falling apart on the inside; well, it makes him no different from anyone else around here.
“It’s better than having no purpose at all,” Ianto responds, and though his tone is utterly without inflection the words slice deep anyway, the way they’re supposed to. He’s too good at this, and it stings.
Owen grits his teeth and says nothing because while he’d love to hit back he’s also horribly aware that Ianto has a damn good point.