PART 4: A Melody of Vanished Days
He felt a tickling in his nostrils. A taste stood in his mouth, a taste he could not compare to any familiar flavor. He felt something with his tongue, he chewed on it.
He opened his eyes, yet all that he saw was in one color— of red-orange. It took him several seconds to adjust to his state and understand the changes of the usual spectrum. He had not developed any eye-related problems—what before him was hair, luxurious hair of the color of fire. His face was buried in it, some of the flaming locks getting in his nose and mouth, tickling him, making him familiar to their taste and savor.
He distanced from the blazing-themed tresses, and slightly lifted his upper body on his elbow. The surroundings immediately came to view—he woke up in their midst virtually every morning he was not on a journey. He was in his room, hidden behind the walls of his house.
His gaze dropped on the motionless figure next to him. The sight kneaded his heart. She was asleep. Though her face was turned to the wall, he could see from a vertical angle her relaxed features, almost hear her sound breathing. The red hue of her fabulous tresses dominated over the pure-white tones of the pillows and sheets, like stripes of red paint on an otherwise white canvass. He marveled at her exposed shoulder, so fine as if crafted from ivory. He could call her lovely, but that would still be an underestimation of her beauty.
Shaggy carefully lifted a strand of her hair. He massaged it, he circled the lock around his fingers like twine. Doing it seemed little sense, if at all. But nevertheless, it felt so nice to him, like any other sign that displayed his adoration.
He let go of the strand, allowing it to graciously return to the soft surface of the pillow. Once again his full concentration was on her. He wanted to run a hand down that smooth cheek, to press his lips to it, but it was not worth breaking her slumber.
But can it last? He heard a whisper from the back of his mind, no doubt another message from that inner voice. Experience had shown that such whisperings were not a positive sign.
He still could not understand it. The two had much in common. They had always gotten along perfectly together. He found himself lost in her eyes many times, and her presence lifted his spirits.
So why was something have to be wrong? Was it because she was one of the gang? Was it because she seemed so perfect due to the union of her appearance, character, and qualities? He wanted to shake his head, but there was no point in it. This could not have even been doubt— it was some sort of light but baseless paranoia. He wanted to push it out of his mind, to cast it back into the abyss in the farthest back of his consciousness…
It worked. He felt relieved, at least for now.
He watched as she turned to her other side. Daphne slowly opened her eyes, and the pair of bright orbs immediately caught him. The redhead's lips curled into a smile.
"So how long ago did you develop the habit of watching me when I'm asleep," Daphne said still somewhat sleepily, but with a teasing tone.
He smiled back at the reference to the awkward event from a couple of days before.
"Actually, this is only the second time I can remember," he did not have to lie on this occasion.
He bowed his head down and gave her a light peck on the lips.
"By the way, what's the time?" she asked as Shaggy rubbed the tip of his nose against hers.
The young man turned away, though fully uneager, from her to look at the clock on the stand next to the bed.
"Just a couple of minutes past eight," he gave her the time, "Why? Were we supposed to travel to some place again?" Shaggy doubted that being with her had made him forget anything important.
"No," she replied, "it's just that I don't like getting up early when it's unnecessary."
"Wake me up at about ten or so," she snuggled into the covers and closed her eyes.
He felt himself chuckling from the inside as he cuddled next to her. That was something he could have said himself. Though the contrasts were striking, in some aspects they were so much alike.
In a twist of roles it was he who in the end had to be woken up, having blanked out earlier. He thought he rode in boat in thick darkness when he got caught in a storm, so strong the rocking seemed.
"Hey, Shaggy, are you finally going to wake up or what?" a female voice echoed from all sides.
He woke only to experience some more rocking, this time in the real world.
"Like I'm awake!" he proclaimed in a higher tone.
It stopped, but he could feel the source of the disturbance on his shoulder.
He turned his head and saw Daphne, now dressed, standing by the bedside.
"Sorry about that, but you were not responding when I tried lighter," she said and removed her soft hand from his shoulder.
"Ok, so I'm up now," he confirmed as he sat up.
"Anyway, I think it's time I get going," Daphne said and looked into the direction of the door.
"Aren't you gonna stay for breakfast?" her words brought a disturbing thought to his mind but he managed not to give it away through mimic.
"Well, I'm sure I can."
Some time later they were down in the kitchen. This area of the house could not be called enormous, no matter what expectation might have arisen if anybody that knew him well was asked to imagine it. However there was enough space for all the items that made a kitchen what it truly was.
He had just ceased chopping salami for his multi-layer sandwich, a term that in his culinary vocabulary only stood for meaty products, not auxiliaries like cheese and salad. The less enduring Daphne preferred to have oatmeal. He was sitting next to her at the table, by her right side in homage to their usual spots in the Mystery Machine.
Predictably and, after all naturally, he was the first to be done with his breakfast.
"How do you manage not to choke?" asked a chuckling Daphne, "Those are big chunks of food you've been swallowing?"
"Well, what can I say? I'm careful," he said and wondered whether he was ready for dessert.
"Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you yesterday. A letter from Velma came to me when we were away," she lifted her eyes off the plate and looked at him.
"You did? So what did she write?" the young man was infinitely interested in the developments in the lives of his friends.
"Her internship is about to end soon, and she's hoping to become a full-time NASA employee."
"I bet that's going to be like a dream come to true for her."
"More or less. Isn't it great she's doing so well?"
"You're asking?"
"No," she nodded, "it's obvious."
Daphne was not a philosopher, but she had an ability to make him think about major questions even when she sometimes talked about trivial and idle things. Those thoughts could often be distantly relevant to the topic of discussion or virtually always irrelevant to the secrets of the universe but they were major, and so that counted…
"And what about…us," he made a short pause before the final word, highlighting it. Yet he did not intend making his breathing heavier the way he still did.
She let go off the spoon the metallic appliance made a lone clanking sound as it met the bowl's side, a weak imitation of a beat of a gong.
She understood he was not talking about their reporting work.
The young man needed an answer, a solid conclusion from which any non-deciphered meanings would not spread into different direction. A primary fact had to be accepted—he was confused. Confused by what appeared to be several different voices in which his consciousness spoke or possibly played with him. Confused by Daphne's words, spoken and those she preferred to keep to herself, her failure to give a straight answer and openly reveal her view on 'this little issue', as she had so flippantly labeled it. Having been overwhelmed by her charms and driven by his emotion, he had preferred to become lost in her tenderness rather than address this subject the previous evening.
He could still feel the sweet taste of her lips, but he was unable, and it was a somewhat frightening awareness, to tell what was in her head in those moments. With this question unanswered, everything automatically disappeared in the fogs. In a testing example, he could already find two different interpretations of the previous night. Were they making love or was she comforting him, trying to protect him from the demons that haunted him? He silently ordered himself to stop delving into such thoughts, for they only directed him to the bottomless pit of confusion.
Daphne kept her eyes on the bowl, undoubtedly in an attempt to avoid his gaze.
"I still have some questions," the statement through its unnatural lifelessness like it was addressed to somebody other than her brown-haired companion.
She had to have feelings for him, a sense hinted to Shaggy, but ultimately everything depended how strong they were and how severely they might have been tested…
"So ask, maybe I can answer them?" he urged softly, subliminally wishing to make Daphne sure that he was there for her.
"I don't think even you are able to answer them," the redhead looked at him, but to the young man's dismay, her eyes once again concealed her sentiments.
Shaggy thought he heard a pebble fall down a deep well, accompanied by a sharp air-cutting noise, another symbol with different meanings. He wanted to say something else but his intent would not pass…
Daphne brought her hand, the palm turned upwards, towards him. This courteous gesture felt like an invitation to a dance. Without a second thought, he covered her hand with his.
"Let time tell," she concluded, a smile embellishing her features even more.
No matter what type it was, they would dance together…
Breakfast time was soon finished, and Shaggy was the one to wash the dishes. The warm water poured gently on his hands as he was occupied by this task in an allegory to his state. It felt that as if most, if not all his ripping concerns were carried away down the drain by the warm stream. He kept throwing glances at her, his eyes sparkling with happiness.
"That's a nice rear garden," he heard as he wiped his hands with a towel. Daphne was standing behind him and looking into the window.
He looked into the same direction and saw what he expected to appear, a properly-mowed green yard, but devoid of any other colors.
"But its look would benefit from some flowers," the redhead, an expert on mixtures and contrasts of colors, gave a verdict.
"I'll trust your judgment on this topic, even though any flower pales before your radiance," he said and lovingly wrapped his hands around her.
"Quite a sophisticated compliment," Daphne whispered without commenting on the flaws in the statement's structure.
Their lips met again as if it was a part of a script. The aura of the kiss was so binding that the young man thought it could have lasted forever…could have…
"Shaggy, Daphne…what are you doing?" a voice sounded, its expression fueled by surprise in every sound.
It startled both of them, breaking the kiss. He thought Daphne, traditionally prone to the unexpected, would have nearly jumped back had his embrace not kept her.
Eyes wide, the pair turned to the direction of the voice…a familiar voice. They recognized the miniature figure of Scrappy Doo in the doorway. The young dog was probably as wide-eyed as they were that moment.
"Morning, Scrappy," he threw an irrelevant phrase by habit.
Shaggy was aware they would need to reveal the new developments before their canine teammates, yet he had not expected this moment would come so soon.
"Well, how should I put it…" Daphne was the one to start.
Scrappy Doo was the first one to find out the news. By the time Scooby came along, and it happened shortly afterwards, it became obvious how much the new information got him excited—he was the one retell it to his uncle, sparing the couple from a repetitive account. The two Great Danes did not have a problem with that. Scooby then asked breakfast.
No matter what any philosopher could say, ultimately there were only two prisms through which you could see a specific event: that of the present moment and a future perspective. That moment when the young Great Dane stumbled upon them in the kitchen and the expression on his face when he saw him, with Daphne in his embrace locked in a kiss, would bring a smile and a short but sincere laugh with the passing of time. Yet it did not appear that way in its original instance, when due to such a surprise he almost felt busted. That would also become a part to chuckle about later.
After the dogs had eaten and Daphne had gone home, Shaggy accommodated himself before the TV set, the pets next to him.
"Gee, Shaggy, you two make a good match," the pup, more emotional than his relative, gave a view on the topic.
"Thanks Scrappy," he said.
"You couldn't have found a better choice than Daphne as your mate…"
Shaggy raised a brow at the awkwardness. By his use of dog terms, it was evident that Scrappy never managed to grasp certain aspects of anthropology.
"Ruman relationships rork rifferently, Rappy," Scooby softly explained.
"Like what your uncle said," Shaggy patted the pouch in reassurance that no feelings were hurt.
Life continued, both unchanged and unlike in its composition. They would once more hit the road to do reporting, including the work on Daphne's article series on the criminality in America of those days. Also, as naturally as the emergence of the sun or moon on the horizon, they would once in awhile come across the deeply familiar phenomena of awkward mysteries and crooks in masks. Yet there was a difference too. They were together, and this fact, as warm as the beating of the heart, was capable of redeeming even the worst and most chill-inflicting case. He could still feel the sensation of the encouraging kisses the redhead bestowed upon during these adventures.
Their romance progressed at the rapidest rate. After a period of around six months since the day they became a couple, Daphne moved in with him. They were not married; still young, they thought they had the time to seal their union. In some way, though he had never come across such accusations, he also wanted to prove that he did not try to cozy up to the Blake family—his own family, while well off, was not actually rich, and even stood not in the shade of the Blakes. He was living with Daphne, her surname and lineage unimportant in his mind. However, time would later show that potential marriage was not on the dice Fate had thrown.
But even as he stood in front of a window years after those events, it was not the darkened street open to his view, but diverse scenes from the past whether fun, heart-warming, or tolerably annoying. They had come from what seemed a lifetime ago, but were so clear that he saw every detail. The great river of Time flew between him and them, keeping them on separate banks, but even it was powerless to obstruct the view. Shaggy wanted nothing more than to swim across it and reach the opposite shore where he, though a foreigner, frantically believed he belonged. Yet this stream could not be crossed; he knew he would never have the so desperately desired opportunity to reach his destination. He would remain on his bank, eyes damp, zealously waving his hands to gain the attention of the denizens on the other side, a sight they were incapable of noticing.