Out of Nothing

Summary: He takes a hit and passes it back to her, leaning toward her without knowing or caring why. On impulse, he keeps going and as the result of some intentional accident, his lips find hers and for five whole seconds their shoulders and hands aren't the only thing that's connected. Craig/Alex AU. (or Five moments never shared between Craig and Alex.)

Disclaimer: The lyrics alternate between "A Lack of Color" (Death Cab for Cutie) and "Ghost Man on Third" (Taking Back Sunday). Characters are out on loan.

Setting: sometime around/between Queen of Hearts & Goin' Down the Road

A/N: I don't know what this is or where it came from or how it will be received...but I seriously couldn't do other stuff until this was finished. I had to write it. Had to. Review?

And when I see you

I really see you upside down

But my brain knows better

It picks you up and turns you around

Turns you around, turns you around

Her nails, he notices, are chewed and bitten—not quite down to the quick but damned near getting there. He isn't sure why he finds this to be as fascinating as he does.

The cafeteria finds itself especially crowded today, flooding the lunch line with people he's never seen before and, somehow, he manages to get sandwiched in between Alex and some fuzzy haired grade nine. He takes in the way she tucks her lip in between her teeth and lets it out slowly. It's a nervous habit, he's noticed, and only when it surfaces does he become aware that her feathers can be ruffled, on occasion, and that she is not completely untouchable.

(To keep himself from staring too much, he rearranges the food on his tray, keeps his eyes focused on that instead. But that lasts only for a moment.)

Her left hand, she shoves into her pockets, and the nails on the right find their way back into her mouth. In his mind, he tallies up the number of times her teeth drag over them.

One. The line inches toward the cash register; meanwhile the skin around her knuckles tightens and stretches, turning an almost bleach white in color as her hand clenches around the edge of the lunch tray she's carrying.

Two. Craig reaches above her shoulder for an apple, catches the way her eyes dart between his arm and the front of the line.

Three. She pats her pockets one last time, but he knows she will only come up empty handed.

Four. She's next and her shoulders are so tense they're practically up to her ears. She has two options here: to put it all back or try, somehow, to get away from Shelia's prying eye and sneak away from the line with a free lunch. Neither one of these choices sound particularly appealing, and so he decides to open a door, take a chance, and give her a third option.

He steps in front of her and before she can protest (or, as he knows she's capable, punch his lights out) Craig hands over a twenty and tells Alex not to worry.

She frowns but he sidesteps her to avoid any questions, tells himself not to put any meaning behind the look on her face and expression in her eyes, neither of which want to leave his mind.

ii.

It's times like these where silence means everything

And no one is to know about this

It's a campaign of distraction

And revisionist history

Somewhere off in the distance, a door slams shut.

She flinches, but plays it off well, resting her elbows on her knees and pretending to find great interest in the concrete beneath her feet.

She senses the intrusion before she sees him, sauntering over to her steps and planting his leather-jacketed ass next to her. Alex's best scowl is completely wasted; he doesn't really seem to notice her in spite of the fact that he is invading her personal space so much that it might as well be non-existent.

Even though he has somehow managed to encroach himself onto her territory, she has silently gotten through three weeks of sitting beside him in her alley without incident.

It actually doesn't bother her as much as she would like to pretend it does; in fact she would prefer this—their silence— to all the pointless conversations she can't escape when she's back inside. Out here, they don't speak and simply acknowledge each other with a nod. Out here, they don't try to force anything. For that, she is almost grateful.

She lives for the moments when she can bring time to a standstill. She lives for those moments of temporary amnesia, forgetting who she is, how she is, and the fact that things don't change just because she wishes they would.

Alex closes her eyes, her numb fingers toying with the lighter in her pocket as she wants nothing more than to put it to good use. Arms wrapped around a bruised torso covered by layers of dark tattered clothes and a defense mechanism of feigned hostility, she tilts her head towards a gray sky, and attempts to forget about her life, for just a moment.

He presses his thumb to his temple; he can feel the headache building there, just waiting for that moment where it has the opportunity to manifest itself into a full blown migraine. A cigarette dangles from his lips and just as he's about to light it, he hears Ashley's voice in his head, buzzing and tiny, the perfect imitation of a gnat that just won't die: "You shouldn't smoke so much. What if it counteracts with your meds? I read somewhere that—"

He flicks his thumb across the lighter, the cigarette burns to life and the gnat dies with a satisfactory thud. Craig leans against the building, the brick digging into his back but he ignores it, tilting his head to the side and telling himself to get comfortable, to just ignore the presence lingering off to his left.

In spite of his own orders, he thinks, distantly, that with nothing but a tank top and ratty jeans with more rips than denim, she must be cold. And then, he tells himself that he shouldn't care. That he doesn't. (Except, he kind of does.)

"I don't," he whispers and blows a thin cloud of smoke towards the sky.

Craig glances at her briefly in between inhales and exhales; her gaze is straight ahead, stoic and unbreakable. She doesn't seem at all affected by his presence here, but then again he kind of expects that. She is Alex Nunez, the unflappable and disenchanted.

But for once, she appears to be calm, her almost threatening and out of control demeanor is gone—at least, for the moment.

And Craig is perfectly content with keeping it that way. He's just escaped the one woman show that is Ashley Kerwin and he has absolutely no desire to encounter Alex in her usual form.

He doesn't come out here often, nor does he get the opportunity to think—really think—alone, without the input of others and what they think he should be thinking, whether or not it's healthy for him to be thinking it. Out here, in the surprisingly serene atmosphere of the small space behind their school, he is able to do just that. And he plans on making the most of it.

Craig closes his eyes and slowly allows his mind to go blank. He thinks of nothing but the blackness behind his eyelids as he inhales deeply from the cigarette dangling from his mouth. It is a mental cleansing; a skill he's mastered ever since everyone he's become the center of the three ring circus involving his meds, his doctors and anyone else who's decided to take it upon themselves to monitor (or "cure") his mental instability.

The smoke billows from his open lips, tickling them slightly.

His eyes slide open just as the rain starts to fall. A fat droplet of water lands on his forehead, then slowly rolls down the bridge of his nose.

Slighted, Craig flicks the butt of his cigarette onto the asphalt and stomps it out with the heel of his shoe. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Alex, completely immobile and unperturbed by the increasing rain.

Her head is tilted back, eyes closed almost emulating the position Craig was in a few seconds ago. Her actions, though, seem more natural, fluid. Her lips are parted, just slightly Her cheeks are dotted by drops of rain that stay on her skin just long enough to thread through her hair and cascade down her neck.

His stomach muscles tighten and he feels oddly…full. Craig frowns, not sure what else to call it but it is something. It is definitely something.

"You want something." It isn't a question and he frowns at her assumption, at the fact that there is no room in her voice or her mind for any other possibility.

"Nothing but the pleasure of your company," he retorts with gentle sarcasm. "Why do you think I have to want something from you?"

She scoffs. "Experience. People don't just—"

He almost laughs at just how insecure she really is, that maybe she isn't as unflappable as he thinks.

"Sometimes, Alex, people do just."

iii.

If you feel discouraged

That there's a lack of color here

Please don't worry lover

It's really bursting at the seems

Absorbing everything

The spectrum's a to z

She seeks out solace in leather seats patched up with duct tape and super glue, its yellow stuffing peeking out at the corners. With her head resting against the door handle and an over sized sweatshirt serving as her blanket, she curls into herself and, for the first night in a long while, sleeps without any interruptions.

His guitar case, he decides, does not make a bad pillow after all. He crosses his arms over his chest to ward off any chills. On a park bench several blocks from the place he calls home, he falls asleep under the stars, the soft chirping of crickets playing him a beautiful lullaby.

She recognizes that leather jacket. The sloped shoulders, that odd gangly walk. And the hair. She has never come across another person who has made the "unruly bed head" look into a fashion statement without even trying, or wanting to. (She won't admit that she finds it to be an endearing look.)

She doesn't do nice things. (She'd have to be nice.) She doesn't do pity. She doesn't waste her time worrying about making anyone else feel better when her life is so fucked up. She doesn't care.

Alex sighs as she flicks the butt of her cigarette out the window, the tips of her fingers coating in the early morning dew that clings to the window.

She does pull over. She does ask (reluctantly) if he needs a ride. She does smile (but he doesn't see it) when he climbs in, making himself a temporary home in her passenger seat.

He never thought he'd actually feel happy to see her, but he'll admit he prefers sitting beside her in her ratty old Camry to battling cold air and light rain and the crazed world of homelessness. He should say something, thank her, but he has never been good with expressing himself and she is not the kind of person who needs meaningless platitudes in order to get through the day.

"Where to?" He is the first to break the silence between them, and his voice is low as he chances a glance her way, but she is focused, eyes straight ahead, her hands gripping the steering wheel. (This seems to be the only place where she follows the rules.)

She raises an eyebrow in a way that he finds oddly intriguing.

"Anywhere?"

And he nods, liking the sound of that.

iv.

Jinx me something crazy

Thinking an event through then

I'm as smooth as the skin that rolls across the small of your back

It's too bad it's not my style

It's sometime in between English and World History II when she offers him a joint. "You look like you need it," is all she says.

He's not sure, exactly, how he's supposed to take that. ("Don't," she says later.) And he wonders if she senses the lack of hesitance in his actions, the ease with which his fingers envelope the prize in her hands, the fact that he doesn't flinch when they brush against her skin. They don't say much of anything; they sit: shoulder to shoulder, her hair falling over his arm, her cheek somewhere near his jaw.

His mouth is barely on the end of it, poised and ready to inhale, her wrist somewhere somehow locked between his fingers (he's amazed, really, by how soft her skin is; it's not something he'd expect of her) when she starts to laugh.

It's a strange sound, but only because it's not one he's used to hearing coming out of her. He decides, once he gets over the initial shock, that it's actually kind of nice and he actually kind of likes it.

He takes a hit and passes it back to her, leaning toward her without knowing or caring why. On impulse, he keeps going and as the result of some intentional accident, his lips find hers and for five whole seconds their shoulders and hands aren't the only thing that's connected.

He sighs and she inhales and, for one glorious minute, they are breathing each other's air and he discovers her mouth is much softer and less intimidating when it's parted just right. And when she pulls away, he recognizes that she tastes tangy and sweet, almost like tangerines, almost like tangibility.

v.

To call at 7:03 and on your machine I slur a plea for you to come home

But I know it's too late

I should have given you a reason to stay

Given you a reason to stay

This is fact, not fiction

For the first time in years

Condensation from the beer bottle drips onto his fingers and he runs a cool hand across his forehead, appreciating the moment of relief. He probably—definitely—should not have told her to come here but as he watches her tip her head back and part her lips to take a drink he doesn't really give a damn.

He thinks he wants to kiss her. (Again.)

"Don't be stupid," she murmurs.

"What?"

"People will see."

He tilts his head and squints his eyes in a way that he knows has the power to make other girls feel flustered. She scowls. "Since when do you care what other people think?"

The scowl deepens, he stands so she has nowhere to go but toward him. "I don't. You and I both know this isn't going—"

"Alex. Shut up." He doesn't know what he's expecting to happen, but he is (pleasantly) surprised when she kisses him back.

fin.