PEOPLE WATCHING
A/N: Hey guys, this was just a really weird idea that came to me that I could not not write. Mainly because it's just so freaking weird. Also because it's from Lew's POV. There's only going to be five shortest chapters (my cut off is 5000 words), each one focusing on one of the team members. But they had to be on the team when Lew was (and still on the team (sorry no Wordy or Raf (or Leah or Donna or blah blah blah))). This chapter is Sam. Disclaimer: I own nothing People Watching Chapter 1 Champagne Clichés So there's nothing to do. Absolutely nothing. It's not all gated communities nestling on fluffy clouds, softer than the touch of any woman's skin, yet still stable enough to hold up a fountain carved in his likeness with ginger beer spurting from his mouth. Then again, it's not all fire and brimstone, since he sort of went through that with a certain foot click. No tiny little demons stabbing pitchforks into his ass and flaying his flesh from his body. Should be more grateful. It's a little bit of everything and a little bit of nothing. He has a body. His body. Same height, same weight, same muscles, same skin, same scars, minus the missing limbs and organs he only experienced for a cancelled breath. On bad days. On days he still feigns emotions his concentration lapses. Left arm gone. Right hand gone. Like a disturbing game of twister. Just bloody stumps not bleeding. Too many ivory bones scatter. Torso openly frowning at him with charred innards. He's not a ghost. For the love of God, he can't explain how much he's not a ghost. Can't touch things. Can't channel electricity, or make the lights flicker. Can't touch people or communicate with them. Can't possess them, make them act as conduits. Can't do anything but be around them. Sometimes, the people who knew him, the perceptive ones will squint an eye or check over their shoulder. An old Jewish woman threw salt at him once. Doesn't know how long he's been dead because time stops when life does. He doesn't sleep. Doesn't have a schedule, a motive or a boss, but he's not on Earth every day. Maybe he's in stasis because there are too many dead guys floating around. He's never seen another one. Doesn't have any dead relatives so it makes sense that he's utterly alone for eternity. Everything bible black and then all of a sudden in the middle of the Eaton's Center. The thing is, he can go anywhere. The tops of mountains. The stratosphere. Back to Ocho Rios. But memories grow old like clothing. The fabric is ratty and worn. Holes appear and he can't fill them because he has no anchor. No one to help him. So he stops walking the Great Wall and starts seeking out the people he knew. Being around people, it restores his personality. When the basic concepts of being human are destroyed, humanity suffers. Doesn't feel pain, so he doesn't sympathize. Can't die, so he doesn't fear. Still has a basic innate fear, one instilled since birth. Letting down his parents, and it's why he can't go to his house. As much as he longs to hear his mom's voice or pretend to smell her cooking, he doesn't want to show up and view his parents' lives in shambles. So he follows the people who mean the second most. The people who are still somewhat of a family despite it being what he thinks are years. He's seen a few different snows befall his own grave. Wishes there was a way to tell time. Every time he passes a calendar, the days turn into checkerboards. Melt from the paper and crawl across the floor. Doesn't know what year it is, but it's winter. Probably the ass end, because the snow is sleety. Wet and heavy like slobbering rain. Can't feel temperatures, just snow pelting him in the back of his shaved head. Pops up downtown. Slides into the back of various cabs until he gets within walking distance of the SRU. By that time it's almost end of shift because the guys are gathered in the locker room. His locker is off limits. His plaque a 'do not resuscitate' order. No one's used it since him. Sarge cleaned it out. Wasn't there to see it, but just innately knows. Like how people know lyrics to a song. Or what goddamn year it is. Knows a lot now, too much sometimes. Too much. "Any plans tonight?" Sarge asks over his shoulder. The inside of Sarge's locker is pasted with pictures of a woman he doesn't remember and a kid he doesn't know. When did this happen? Then he knows the kid is Dean. Came back, wants to be a cop. It's an ongoing familial arguement. And the woman is his girlfriend, a case of faulty hero worship turned true love. None of the guys answer. Spike yanks on a shirt, distorting and bending at the door to his locker. The woman decorating the inside is finally not Mama Scarlatti. Ed shakes his head while packing his bag, providing only a coy smirk and a ticking finger. Sam ducks his head while tying his shoes. "Really?" Sarge's breathless chuckle is mocking. "The most romantic holiday of the year and none of you have plans?" "Maybe we don't feel like sharing them Greg?" "Yeah Boss." Not a single sliver of metal pokes through the collage of pictures on Spike's door. Who the hell is this girl? It's not Bridget. She had red hair. Stands before door, hands on his hips and narrows his eyes at a strip of photo booth pictures. Her sitting in Spike's lap. Him resting his chin on her shoulder. Her kissing his cheek. And the last one of them pulling stupid faces. "I'm all embracing the team but if you need sex tips check the internet." His nose almost presses through the picture when the information leaks into his head. Imagines it as all bright green ones and zeros on a black background. "Shit Spike." Chuckles and wavers his head. Fingers rub at his forehead as familiar grooves from laughing embed themselves. He's missed them. Missed this. "Very funny." Sarge acts annoyed but he enjoys it. Enjoys it because changes are going to happen soon. They're already in motion, which might be why he came back. He feels it in the room. Like standing in carbonated water. The atmosphere tickles like insect legs across his skin. Spike grins and reaches right through his chest for the locker door. A regular occurrence. They don't know part of him still slightly exists. He'll never talk, touch, smell or thankfully taste them again. But he's still with them. Sometimes. Ed zips up his bag and rolls his eyes, unseen by the rest of the team. "Well, Clark's going out with his new girl friend so—" Misses Spike the most. Hangs around him the most, but must've been snuffed out for too long last time. Knows Spike's dad died. Then his mom. Knows him dying must not have been easy because it was the first domino in a landslide. But now he has her. And her out of everyone. Goddamn. "You did good, Man." Spike stops his movements. Immediately halts them. The strap of his gym bag flutters to the ground as his neck wrenches up. Stares directly at him. Directly through him. He's one of the intuitive ones. Probably thinks he's going insane, but the corner of his lips slant into the slightest of smiles. Across the room, Sam stands from the bench. His watch hinge gets caught on his jacket. Something so predictable. Could've sat back with an untouchable, unscented, unflavored bag of popcorn, pointed at the room and called it. Something topples tap dancing onto the floor. The guys, himself included, form a semicircle around the object as Sam flushes red. Ed speaks, the first one to lose interest and turn away. "No plans tonight, eh Braddock?" "I never said I didn't have any plans." "So you're going to ask her?" Sarge picks up the gray ring box and offers it to Sam, who appears almost hesitant to accept it. "What about not being cliché? Isn't tonight a cliché? I mean why don't you just stick it in a glass of champagne and get it over with?" "Why doesn't he just throw it in her face? Jeez Ed." Spike plucks the box from Sam's hand, dusting it off. "It's a hard thing to do. I know when I proposed to— Holy shit Sam, why didn't you just buy her a French villa." Too much information at once. Marriage. Everyone getting married. Sarge with a girlfriend. Spike with a fiancé. Sam proposing. The four lobes of his brain attached and driving in opposite directions. The gamble of losing phantom limbs comes into play, so he concentrates on the piece of jewelry sitting on the silk pad. The ring is, well the ring is huge. Not huge in size but diamonds are almost seeded completely around the band. Just everywhere. Will probably drip out and trail down her finger. "This is why I didn't want you guys to know." Sam mutters, his lips barely breaking from each other as he slings his coat over his back. Spike raises the box to the lights, ready to give a toast. There are solar flares smaller than the beams crashing against the legion of diamonds. He lowers it and in a gentle voice questions, "Is this because you guys had a fight?" "Oh ho." Ed chuckles and stops short of pushing through the door. "I thought you guys were perfect." "I'm done talking about this." Sam snatches the box back. Snaps it closed and shoves it back in his pocket. Nostrils flare a little as he collects his bag and exits the locker room. Comes off like he's ashamed of his idea. Ashamed of showing his love. A love relevant when he was still alive. Sarge shuts his locker. Still does it without much reverberation. His old boss doesn't say much so it's hard to establish his reaction. It might be because he's been in stasis so long he forgets the essential emotional equations. The basic tells and marks people get in their faces. "Sam wouldn't buy her a ring because she got upset with him." Spike's lips twitch. And even though there's a whole separate dimension separating them, his best friend glances over at him. Like the both know what happened because they do. Spike heard it through his fiancé and he inadvertently read too much into Sam which revealed a childhood with an emotionally and sometimes physically abusive father, the months spent crying at night from an incident of friendly fire, the swirl in his chest for her which is so heavy and full it presupposes all his other thoughts. More recently his purchase of the ring a year ago, Spike proposing two months ago, and the argument two nights ago in which Sam— "He's pissed off at her." Blips out after that. Spends some time in limbo. Can't really say how long, but just replays the locker room scene in his mind like a soap opera because if he doesn't he'll forget it. It's a blessing and a curse. Can look at anyone and know every single occurrence, positive and negative in their life up to the present but can't remember things he semi-experienced. When he returns it's dark out. The street lights are smothered by hurdling sleet. Beside him in Queen's Park a squirrel bounces over the accumulating slush. Wants to know what happened. Tonight is a dangerous night to be visiting. The most romantic night of the year. No one wants to see their friends in the middle of—but he wants to know what happened. So it's why he only looks for Sam. His apartment is empty. Her house is empty. He wonders if the world got hit by an epidemic. Wonders why the hell they wouldn't come hang out with him. He knows all the best spots. But then figures they might have gone out. This is where that wealth of information becomes disturbing, because from studying Sam he knows they had their first kiss outside of the Royal York. So he's there. Inside the lobby, leaning over the receptionist's shoulder. Points at the computer screen. "No, man. Go into bookings." "Royal York." The Receptionist answers the phone. "Bookings." "A room for tonight?" "Book-ings." "No, I'm sorry. We're all booked for tonight." "Man, you didn't even look," he yells to himself and punches a fist through the back of the guy's skull. Of course it doesn't do anything. He likes to think the guy will get a headache later, but no. The air current doesn't even change. Tried to use his skewed view of time to see Sam check in. What room he had. But this idiot started his shift late. He also suffers from a massive fear of clowns. So now he's stuck at reception, or doing a sweep of the whole building. Did it once before when he was living. Might be like strolling through the old halls of high school, which he's done and didn't feel a thing. It wouldn't be such a bad idea if it wasn't Valentine's Day. The most awkward thing ever is walking in on people having sex. Even if he's dead. "Excuse me?" Stops slamming his fist into the back of the guy's head. Recognizes her instantly. Is used to seeing her zip down a building, right by him. Point her chin out at him in a gloat filled grin. But she's on the other side of the desk. Coat bumpy, hair clumpy and wet. Drops of snow melting and sliding down her face. She doesn't look like he remembers. Doesn't look content or healthy. The receptionist lifts his head once and drops it back to the keyboard which he's only pretending to type on. "The employee entrance is around back." He punches the guy in the head again. Grunts with the strength he uses. "No, I have a room reserved here. It's under Braddock." She convinces the receptionist by divulging more personal information than a credit card company needs. He apologies profusely, makes with the pleasantries and offers the room key. She doesn't say a word, which is unlike her. Normally, she would've bitched him into the corner of the room and slammed her knee into the back of his neck. He has a conscious goal is not to read into her or Spike. Doesn't want to know their childhoods, or sordid pasts. They were friends. Doesn't want to taint the memories of their friendship and anything they openly told him with memories he stole. She huddles compact in the corner of the empty massive elevator. Coat folded around her body and once smug chin tucked against her chest. The gold plates teepeeing behind her mirror her sorrow; don't reduce any hurt by having a polished exterior. "He loves you, Jules." Informs her from the other corner. Hand reaching, fingers just shy of brushing her coat sleeves where she buried her hands. "Dude loves you so much it's kinda scary. I can't feel anything and I can almost feel his love for you." Hand is rediscovered among the cavernous sleeves and she flicks away a tear from her eye. She sniffs once and sighs, voice full of pain and morose. "I think that's what might scare you. I don't think anyone has ever truly loved you." The elevator convulses and her hand slaps down on the railing to keep stable. Right over his hand. Her face skews, glossy eyes jittering in confusion at the sensation. Apparently she's one of the people who can sense him. "He loves you Jules. You love him too. That's all you need. There's nothing to be afraid of." Gets to the room before her. She's hesitating and he doesn't know how long he has before he'll pop out. The room is the ring, only, well in room form. Beautiful, extravagant. There's food and champagne and he hopes to God he pops out before anything physical happens. Just needs them to keep their clothes on. Sam's pacing back and forth. He's wearing a white dress shirt and black slacks. Her complete coin flip. A fifty-fifty chance. Phone at his ear and his eyebrows fallen in worry. Index finger dipping just inside his lip. The love in his chest is diluted and pounding. "Jules, it's me again." There isn't a string of impatience in his voice. Not a particle of anything negative towards her because he knows. He's seen her past without seeing her past. Whatever he did or said to her two days ago made her a complete wreck and he knows it. "Please, Sweetheart. Just—Just call me back. I won't even answer. I'll let it go to voice mail. Just let me—" There's a knock at the door and he wants to slap the stupid phone out of his hand. Sam's eyes scroll up and then to a pendulumed wall clock. He can't decipher the time because the numbers are all in ancient Sumerian. They jiggle, and then dissolve to a white face. "Just let me know you're safe. I love you Jules." Tosses the phone through him onto the couch cushion. It bounces once and hits the floor. He slides his arm over the back of the material trying to copy a comfortable position even though he doesn't remember what comfort feels like anymore. "Phone's on the floor." Sam doesn't listen. For obvious reasons. Opens the door and finds her disheveled, wet, and depressed. She's dressed in sweatpants and her coat, he now realizes, is Sam's because there is a positive agreement flowing off the coat and him. Plus it droops to her knees. She sniffs once. "Oh thank God." Sam's already embracing her. Despite the supposed fight. Despite the water from her hair and skin permeating his shirt. "Haven't met him yet." His foot keeps going through Sam's cell as he tries to kick it somewhere they won't step on it. Adds over his shoulder, "But If I do, I'll tell him you're grateful." The bundle in Sam's chest lightens and glows. It floats when he's with her and he won't let her go. Won't back away from the door even to shut it for privacy. She cries into his shoulder and he lets her without any reservations. Holds the back of her head and kisses her temple. She breathes in his neck as they block the doorway. Finally Sam slides his hand down her arm, fingers over her fingers and parts from her. Steps back to allow her into the room, and gently shuts the door. "Sam—" "Marry me." "That is definitely not ring in the glass cliché." He coughs to break the silence. Leans forward to check the champagne which is still corked on the side table. Something about it itches him. Has the same false sensation of boiling water, of popping bubbles like he did in the locker room. Listens to the rest of the proposal as he investigates the bottle. Wishes he could see the past and future of objects. Talk to objects. Wishes he wasn't insane. Wishes he wasn't dead so tomorrow or whenever in this nonlinear time flow he could celebrate with them. Regret is a human feeling. It's a shitty one but he'll take it. "I'm not doing this because it's Valentine's Day, or because Spike proposed and they've been dating a shorter time than us. I'm doing this because I can't live without you Jules. I can't. The idea of waking up without you next to me, of someone telling me I can't hold you, or touch you or kiss you for the rest of my life is unbearable." "Yes." "We don't have to get married right away, I mean we could—" "She said yes." His face pressing through the bottle he opens his eyes underneath beige colored bubbles. Seems normal. No poison. Who would poison them? "Sam, enough." Her fingers touch his lips and he feather kisses them. "I said yes." There's a flash of laughter as he swings her. Love interpreted through dance. Her legs hang out and he catches them, hefting her up. They're all kisses. At first cute engaged couple kisses, then suddenly turn animalistic. Smash into the wall, shaking the sideboard with the champagne. His hand is—And hers is—But then he—And Jesus, he had no idea she was that flexible. He's dead after all. He's not—dead. But the clatter of the bottle brings them out of lips, tongues, skin and hands. Roving hands, just up and underneath and full of everything. Sam lets her legs drop from around his hips and she stops sucking on his neck to get champagne. "Holy shit." He shouts as they stare hooded eyed at each other. Finally safe to shuffle out from the bathroom. "Give me warning next time you two go all primal." If they went into the bathroom he'd have to drop to the basement. Possibly through the Earth. Has never done that before, but he'd rather zip through magma and core than see them have sex if that was a mere glimpse at their four play. The glasses clink and they consume the alcohol like ambrosia. Actually, like they're at a college kegger and some drunk frat boys are behind them shouting 'chug, chug, chug'. The glasses are refilled consumed and then her coat is off and she's straddling him. She doesn't even have the goddamn ring. He needs to get out of there before she gets the ring. Sam has the bottle again, he thinks for a third refill but Sam unbuttons the top three buttons on her pajama top and positions to pour champagne so it dribbles down her chest and— he blips out and back into oblivion. He's never been more relieved in his unlife. Relief another human emotion. "Hey God." He yells and it echoes in the blackness because he's just sort of floating in the suspended animation of space. Maybe in a black hole. Where matter rematerializes. Maybe negative space where everything unfound is found. "If you're here I owe you one." There's no answer. Doesn't expect one. Would actually be surprised in this point if someone replied to his sarcastic comments. Thinks he's not the same person he was. Well he's not because he's dead, but thinks the lack of interaction changed him. Doesn't have the grounding they all do. Becomes harder. Harsher. More critical. "Oh." Claps his hands around his mouth, shouting into the void before him which may or may not be a wall. He could be in space. He could be in a box. Maybe he's in his own coffin. "Sam says thank you. " Another polite refrain for an answer. When there is none, he clarifies, "Sam Braddock."
Also it's not like Just-World or Elysian Fields where everything is overly described. It's really straightforward, but I find it the most confusing. Maybe because there are so many rules to figment Lew. So if you have any questions feel free to PM me.
Oh also I have no idea how to categorize this mofo.
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