Disclaimer: I do not own Lost Girl. This work is not for profit, just for fun.

In the Morning Light

The Mad Habberdasher

Bo left.

It's six thirty, the sun's just starting to peak over the eastern horizon. And, Bo left. This isn't unusual. Completely freaking normal in fact. What isn't normal is what she left behind.

I stare at my Rice Krispies, watching them float, and thinking about George Carlin. A strange subject, but it's better than the other place my brain wants to take me. I spoon some of the little air flakes up, and send them down the hatch. The sugar makes the milk sweet, but it leaves the cereal flavorless.

And, while I like Rice Krispies, today, this morning, I don't.

Today I want…

I stop myself before I get too far with that thought. I'm not allowed. Girl's code of honor or something like that. I'm not supposed to touch Bo's baggage. But, it's all I can think about.

The milk goes down the drain, leaving some of the cereal in the sink. A quick flip of the wrist, and a steady stream of water washes those down. I give a soft sigh, and throw a quick glance at the bedroom door.

I want to cast away the façade, the hyper happy puppy that every one expects of me. I want to be serious for one day. I want to be the important one for one day.

The assistant.

The side kick.

Bo's little human pet.

That's how they all look at me. Even Bo's baggage. I can't help it anymore.

My footsteps are soft as I creep across the hard wood floor. I don't want to make a sound, not a creak or a groan. That would alert my prey. Wake Bo's baggage, and I don't want it awake.

I reach the door, and I pause. My heart is pounding, somewhere in my throat. The anticipation, the pressure on my brain, and the overwhelming desire. That last one warms me from the core. Insatiable. I want to open the door. I need to open the door. My hand finds the knob without me telling it too.

The knob seems to pulse in my hand, thrumming with power, and I can't tell if it's Bo's baggage or if I'm feeling my heartbeat through the metal.

I want to turn it.

I don't want to turn it.

I want to turn it.

I don't want to turn it.

My hand moves again, all by itself. It turns the knob, opening the door with a little push. The hinges squeak. My hair stands on end. I'm caught!

I stand there, frozen, staring into the bedroom, staring right at Bo's baggage. It doesn't move. Well, it moves, but it's just the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

Yes, Dyson is Bo's baggage. I had to convince myself early on to look at him that way. If I hadn't I'd be standing right here doing this, watching him sleep, watching the rise and fall of his all too well muscled chest. Watching the way his tattoo changes with every breath; first reflecting the language of the fey, then reflecting the language of the shifters.

God's above, he's hot.

But, watching isn't enough. I knew it wouldn't be.

My mind resists my primal desire for only a minute longer. Then I take two steps. Three steps. Four. Before I know it, I'm across the room, staring down at the man, the fey, that captured my heart and soul, but wouldn't give me the time of day, even if I asked for it.

Dyson shifts position, rolling onto his back and stretching. I freeze, every muscle locking up. I'm caught. Again.

But, I'm not.

Dyson doesn't open his eyes. He yawns in his sleep, and his chest returns to those simple rhythmic breaths. I can see the curl of his auburn chest hair and the smooth sheen of sweat across his skin. I want to touch him, tickle him really. Just run the tips of my fingers over him. I want to watch the goose bumps it creates. But I can't.

I start to turn and leave, but I catch sight of his lips. They're kind of thin, almost not there beneath his beard. But, I see them none the less. I see them, and I know instantly what I want to do.

I can't.

I must.

I can't.

I must.

Damn these impulse control problems.

Before I know it, I'm leaning down, wetting my lips with my tongue, and pressing them against Dyson's. I didn't expect a reaction. I didn't expect him to match my pressure, to feel the firm line of his teeth press into my mouth. Nor the insistence of his tongue as it moved from his mouth to mine.

The fire in my belly raged. I had to pull away. Had to get away before he knew.

Finally sense returned, and I jerked away, leaving his tongue hanging in midair. Now, I didn't care if I woke him up. I ran, out the door, slamming it shut behind me, up the stairs and into the bathroom where I slammed and locked the door. (This was probably a futile effort, considering the person shaped hole in the wall.) I let myself collapse, let the tears come.

"Bo?" I heard Dyson say from down below. His voice was still thick with sleep. Let him think it was Bo, I thought choking down a sob. Just let him think it was Bo. He never has to know.

I look out the small circular window at the morning light coming in, and I wished the day was over.