Disclaimer: I know literally nothing about how hospitals, car crashes, or injuries work. Please excuse the rampant plot holes that I am sure are floating around. Also, there is a flagrant misuse of italics in this story. Sorry.
Blurred.
(there's something wrong with his vision, must be, because otherwise the world wouldn't be full of so much blue black dark redness—)
Sharp.
(Glass. Glass everywhere, and his mind is resembling the state of the wind shield because his thoughts are shattered all over the floor and seats and her—)
"Casey!"
He's ripping his seatbelt off and reaching towards her (fuck, she's not moving, she's not moving, she's not moving) and there's so much blood, how can there be that much blood ("Did you know that there's around 10 pints of blood in the average adult?" "Do I look like I care, Princess?") and if only his hands would stop shaking, maybe he could DO something—
Someone's breath is ripping through the air, panicked, loud, and he realizes that it's him.
"Casey, Casey, Casey, oh god, Casey, say something."
But she never listens to him, does she?
(his world has shrunken down to nothing but her and his fumbling fingers touch her face, trying to see if she's still breathing and he's leaving red fingerprints on her pale skin—)
"Please, Casey, please, please, oh shit, shit, Casey—"
He can't stop babbling, can't stop chanting her name, like it's some sort of magic word, like if he says it enough, eventually she'll open her eyes and turn to him and open her mouth and tear his name into two angry syllables just like she always does—
"De-REK! Do you even know where we're going? This is the wrong road, I'm sure of it!"
"Well, maybe if someone hadn't decided that we should drive back home during the biggest blizzard in the history of Canada in the middle of the night, we wouldn't be going through this!"
"Look, we've both finished our exams, and we agreed—"
"Uh, no, YOU agreed with YOURSELF, and then you stole my copy of the keys to our apartment so I had no choice."
"We wouldn't even be sharing an apartment if it wasn't for the fact that YOU got me kicked out of my girl's dorm because you thought it would be funny to play a prank on me that resulted in the ENTIRE residence needing to be evacuated and fumigated! Besides, there's no harm in going home a few weeks before Christmas to surprise everyone!"
"You're supposed to hate surprises. Oh, wait, that's only when they're played on you, because you can't handle having ANYTHING out of your control."
"Speaking of out of control, Derek, you should be watching the road!"
"Maybe I could if you would shut up! Fuck, I can't see a thing."
"...this might not have been the best idea after all."
"You think? Just remember, this is all your fault! Your fa—"
"Derek, watch out!"
This can't be happening.
He is not sitting in the wreckage of his car on the side of a road in a blizzard with Casey and glass and blood pumping out of her body—
He finally remembers his phone.
(and his hands can barely dial a three key number because he can't peel his eyes away from her prone form and the panic is making the corners of his eyes grow fuzzy and—She's. Not. Moving.)
"911, what is your emergency?"
(and it feels far more natural than it should have for his lips to form her name, because she's been HIS emergency for a long time, long before she had stepped into this car off of a snowy street in Kingston.)
(She's been HIS emergency since his father said "I'm getting married.")
Derek has never really given a damn about Casey's pain before. He isn't heartless, it just never really mattered (so he told himself).
When she had tripped and soared down the stairs at school, her face making a new acquaintance in Cory Plunkett's butt, he hadn't felt anything other than an urge to laugh and ridicule her, which was normal for them.
When she had fallen off the back of the couch and hurt her ankle, it hadn't been anything more than funny. He had gotten the remote, which was what he wanted, and she was pissed off. A good day.
When she had suddenly had to go into surgery to get her appendix removed, it had honestly been sort of hilarious. Only Casey (graceful, stupid Klutzilla) could have the luck to ruin her own sixteenth birthday. She wasn't even there for the better, Derek version of her lame party! Getting your appendix out wasn't a big deal anyway, right?
No, Casey's physical pain had always been a source of amusement for him. It isn't that he's lying to himself (because that would imply that he is consciously denying something, and if there is one word that describes his feelings towards Casey, "conscious" is not it), but more that he just doesn't care.
This is starkly different.
Maybe it's because she can't open her eyes to glare at him. Maybe it's because she can't jump up and yell at him. Maybe it's because of the blood, but it's probably (definitely) because for once she is utterly helpless and that is so opposite of the Casey he knows that it burns him.
The chairs of the waiting room are ugly and uncomfortable and Derek sprawls over two of them, draping his legs across the armrests. His eyes blankly stare up at the ceiling, one finger tapping incessantly against the floor where his arm trails listlessly.
His eyes swim, and he forces them open for what seems like the twentieth time. There's is no way, no fucking way, that he is falling asleep yet. He'd had to try and follow the orders of a paramedic on the phone to keep her alive until the ambulance got there (he's going to have to burn this shirt, because the brick-red stains are never going to come out), and he is not going to let her be selfish enough as to make all of his hard work go to nothing. Once she gets out of surgery (she IS going to get out of surgery alive, she is, she IS) he is going to make her thank him on her hands and knees. And then she is going to apologize for insisting that they ride out tonight, and she's going to acknowledge that it's her fault that they took the wrong road, and she's—
(He's scared.)
He doesn't know how long it actually takes, but it feels like another two hours before they let him see her.
"She's stable," the nurse said calmly (he wants her to shut up and just show him to Casey, because if he has to wait another second without seeing her, he's going to throw a motherfucking TABLE across the room). "But we still can't be certain. Have you contacted her family yet?"
He has. The conversation with Nora took about five minutes; not because Nora hadn't wanted to talk, but because he had spit out all of the information as fast as possible and then hung up before she could start crying. He doesn't want to hear all that girly blubbering because (he is guiltyGUILTY, her daughter is hurt and it's his fault) he'll have to hear Casey's when she wakes up and he really can't take too much of that in one day.
The nurse continues to explain the details and all the medical jargon, but it all blends together into a fuzzy tangle of words in his head. All he can process is the door that is at the end of the corridor, and then suddenly in front of him, and then suddenly closing behind him, leaving him alone with her.
(And she's there on a bed, eyes shut as though she's just sleeping peacefully, except she's hooked up to an IV machine thing—he doesn't know much about hospitals aside from seeing "House" once or twice—and he knows that underneath that blanket there are bandages all over her stomach.)
She looks (dead) okay.
"God, Case," he mutters, pulling a chair up to the side of her bed. "You just had to go and screw things up, didn't you?"
Her eyelids flicker against her pale cheeks (and he hates that because Casey is supposed to be tan and alive, not blanched like a corpse), and his gaze is drawn to the tiny feathered shadows they cast.
"I mean, if you hadn't had to get hurt," he continues nonchalantly. "Then we would've had an awesome story to tell people about how we crashed the car and then trekked through a raging blizzard to the nearest house for shelter..." He trails off, then abruptly pulls his right leg up, pointing indignantly at the bandages wrapped around his shin. "See! Even I got hurt because—" (guilty, guilty, his fault, his fault) "—because you're such a Klutzilla that I had to become collateral damage!"
(the room seems to be shrinking in on them, and yet his words punch at the air, uncomfortably loud, like they are in a cathedral or something, and he's doing this all wrong because it's so hard, so hard to be normal right now—)
"And you're not even listening to me right now," he rambles. "I go to all this trouble, and you can't even give me the time of day?"
(somehow, that doesn't come out the way he meant it)
He falls silent, watching her. The quiet is tangible in the air, and he can almost feel his heartbeat aligning itself to the rhythm of her breath, softly leaking out her mouth. (Why? Why does she have to look so damn delicate?)
"Casey."
It's only her name, but it pushes it's way out of his throat like a secret; raspy and almost strangled sounding.
(Come on, Case. Wake up and roll your eyes at me. Wake up so I can make fun of you again and everything can be normal again.)
Of course, things haven't really been normal between them for a while now.
"What are you doing here?"
"Watching hockey, obviously."
"Riiiight, because you're such a huge fan of hockey. You called it "a pointless exercise in testosterone and violence" like three days ago."
"I do not sound like that when I talk!"
"What, like you've inhaled helium? Yeah, you do. And if you feel like watching hockey, how about you buy a television, because if you're at my games, you'll just distract me."
"Distract you?"
"...I...Yeah. Have you ever seen a mirror? One look at that face in the stands and I'll be so disgusted I'll probably skate right into the boards."
"Oh, well if that's how you feel, maybe I'll print a huge picture of my face and staple it to your door!"
"Whatever, Space Case. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and kick some major ass on ice, so feel free to leave."
"I will NEVER listen to you, Derek!"
His hand is disobeying him and lifting into the air, hovering over her face before he flicks her hair out of her eyes—fast, like he's trying to get rid of something. She doesn't shift, and he wants her to crack open an eye and snarl at him so badly. Because how is he supposed to be Derek when she's not being Casey? They're built this way. They're meant to rebound off of each other, to repel, and when she's not filling her role, he doesn't know what the hell he is supposed to do.
"Hey, man. You think your stepsister would go for me?"
"What?"
"You know, Casey. The chick you always go on and on about, saying how annoying she is? The one who shows up to all of our games? She's hot, and I don't give a damn about how much she talks or shit like that. Think you could put in a good word? Or maybe a bad one—sounds like she hates you from the way she yells at you. She'd probably do the opposite of what you said!"
"...You're not touching Casey."
"Huh? What's with you?"
"Come on, Matt, you know I'm just messing with you. But seriously, Casey's off-limits. She's...got a boyfriend. Goes to another university. Ugly ass piece of shit."
"Really?"
"Would I lie?"
He's tired. But he's tired in that weird way where you can't sleep, where your eyes ache but you can't close them, even when the light is thudding against the inside of your head like a sledgehammer. He opens his mouth, but words can't seem to roll out of it anymore, as if something in his throat is blocking them. He glares at her face and blames her.
"How could you?"
"Yeah, I know. I'm astounded at my ability to tolerate your stench too."
"De-REK! Not that! How could you think that that would be funny? You're just lucky that I didn't tell them that it was you who did that, because if I did, you would be kicked out in a second, but noooo, I wouldn't do that, because unlike you, I actually care! And now I have nowhere to live because of you, and I'm going to have to quit university and get a job as a waitress all because of—!"
"You're living with me."
"...What?"
"See? I can pull the "caring" thing too. You're going to share my apartment. Good timing too, because Josh dropped out a week ago, and I need someone to help pay the rent."
"You—you—how do you offer something so...nice, and then go and turn into a jerk in the next sentence?"
"Because I'm not nice, Casey. Also, I could use someone to do my laundry."
"Oh no, I am not touching anything that has been on your body!"
He blames her for getting hurt and screwing up his head like this. For a second he wonders what would have happened if he had let her drive, like she had been whining about doing since they got in the car. If she had driven, what with her lame "defensive driving", they would probably be safe at their family's home right now.
Or he'd be the one in the bed, unconscious, while she was sitting beside him, yelling at him for being stupid. Maybe she'd hold his hand—seemed like the kind of sappy and dramatic thing she'd do (yes, hand-holding would be a dramatic thing for them), but the best part about this mental image was that she was fine. A little bruised and cut, like he was in reality, but not slashed open and bandaged and lying in a hospital.
"What's with you?"
"Go away."
"Gladly."
"...You said you were leaving. Just go, okay? I'm probably going to start crying soon, and you hate crying. Unless of course, you're here to make fun of me again."
"Casey, Casey, Casey...obviously I'm here to make fun of you."
"De-rek!"
"See, that's a lot better than tears. And this is better too."
"...How did—"
"Strawberry is your favourite, right? The 7/11 at the corner was having a sale on sappy ice cream for whining drama queens."
"At 1:00 in the morning?"
"Just eat your ice cream."
"You didn't spit in it, did you?"
"It's sealed, Case. Not even I'm that talented."
"I guess so."
"...He's not worth it."
"Who?"
"The guy you're crying over. Trust me, he's not worth it..."
"Aw, Derek, tha—"
"...because what guy who goes out with you could have any brain cells at all? Whoa, are you sure you want to throw that? It cost five bucks, you know."
"You—you—ARGH!"
This is hisher fault, this whole thing. It's her fault that they drove off in the first place and it's her fault that they crashed and it's her fault—that he's starting to think he might be insane, that the crash has shaken something up in his brain and smashed through the little walls he had put up to segment his thoughts of Casey (between the thoughts he is allowed to have and the ones he is not allowed to have, the ones he alwaysnever has) but maybe things haven't been the same ever since they stood in a kitchen and she called him her brother and he refuted it and she said it didn't matter and he—
He hesitated.
Because there are a lot of things in the world that matter to Derek Venturi, and one of those things is the "step" in stepsibling. That syllable is important. (Because that word keeps him from falling deeper into the land of "holy shit, you're a fucked up person")
After all, who would want to be related to a keener like Casey?
(Not him.)
Not him.
Derek pulls the chair closer to the bed until his knees are pressing into the side of the mattress, his hands resting on the sheets. The crisp whiteness pushes up between his fingers as they clench, crinkled waves of fabric bunched in his fists. He's tired, so, so tired. He wants to go back to a time before university, before she complicated things. But no matter how far back he goes, she seems to be there: helping him study for exams, throwing meatloaf at his head, teaching him to drive with office chairs, singing in his band, locked with him in a bathroom—
Fourteen. When he was fourteen, that had been the good life! No Casey!
He just hadn't realized it. He hadn't realized through those years when he was having fun pranking Casey and winding her up that it would result in this, in him bent over her bed, feeling—
"I can't do this anymore, Derek. Look, I'm sorry. You're a great guy, but I don't want to be nothing more than a distraction for you."
"Jen, I don't know what you're talking about, but—"
"Derek, you talk about her twenty-four-seven. You plan your days, your LIFE, around how you can mess with her."
"Aw, come on, babe, what does Casey have to do—"
"See? I didn't even have to say her name. You're obsessed with her."
"I..."
"Hate isn't the opposite of love, you know. The opposite of love is apathy, because hate and love are both obsessions. And I KNOW you don't hate her, so I'm getting out. I just hope, for your sake, that you can figure out what this all means before you die, because whoever said denial isn't fatal is a liar."
Derek leans forward.
"Casey?"
Her name shudders out through his lips and ghosts over her skin. His hands spasm against the sheets and then abruptly relax as his body slumps over, curving almost in on itself. He's unfolding, collapsing like a house of cards, and his head joins hers on the pillow, his face tucked into the curve of her neck, breathing in the sharp scent of medicalness, searching for something underneath it to show him that Casey is still there.
(and while it's not the closest he's ever been to her—he's wrestled with her over remotes and danced with her on national television—at the same time it's the closest he's ever been to her)
His mouth only just brushes against her skin, so faint that he can barely feel it and he finds what he is looking for: the barest hint of a taste that doesn't come from a hospital, but comes from the girl in the bed.
This is only happening because he's tired. This doesn't count, none of this. He has an iron-clad excuse (Car accidents can give you head injuries after all. Smash your rational thoughts to pieces) and so he lets the smile unfurl across his face, even as his eyes drift completely shut.
"Derek?"
There is a voice echoing from somewhere above him, filtering down slowly into his brain. He can feel a soft weight on the top of his head, and a strange sensation, like rain trickling across his scalp. It's nice—if sort of weird—and he shifts slightly, making a small noise of pleasure. Whatever he's leaning on abruptly grows rigid underneath him and he pries his eyelids open, prompted by the feeling of unease quickly spreading into his drowsy state.
He feels his spine crack painfully as he draws backwards and the room spins for a second. Still disoriented, colours swirling around his head like he's on drugs or something, he presses his forehead back against her collarbone so he can get his bearings.
(wait a second)
Her collarbone?
Her?
Derek jerks backward so fast that he almost gets whiplash. His hands thud against the edge of the bed, unfolding himself up as he gazes down at the girl lying on the bed below him.
Casey peers blearily up at him, her eyes heavy with sleep. When she had had her appendix removed, she had woken up sleepy, yet ready to spit fire if need be. This time is so different it is jarring: she looks fragile, breakable. Her hand is slightly extended towards him, falling back onto the bed, and he suddenly places the feeling he had woken up with: she had been running her fingers through his hair. He wants to shake his head, erase the signs of her touch, because he can feel it hot against his skull, but all he does is stare at her.
"What—"
Her voice comes out as a croak, and she stops talking, her mouth hanging open, slight surprise bruising her face. In that split second, he realizes that this is not going to work: he can't treat her like normal, not when she looks like this, even though her current patheticness is usually something he would take advantage of. So, for once in his life, he is going to be serious. Considerate. Empathetic. Words that usually make him want to hurl chunks.
(She doesn't deserve to deal with him, not after he skidded off the road and she ended up with bloodbloodblood everywhere—)
She better appreciate the sacrifice he is making by not giving her hell.
"What happened?" he finishes for her, relaxing slightly in his chair, even though his entire body is still stiff from the odd position he was sleeping in (and he'd rather not dwell upon why a moment of weakness had ended with his face pressed to that curve of evilly soft skin that is her neck). "We got into a car crash. And so we're here. You got hurt worse than me, so that's why you're in the bed, and I'm sitting here."
She stares at him, like she can't comprehend whatever he's just said. And actually, maybe she can't. Maybe she's on drugs right now and has no idea what the fuck is happening. That would explain why she hadn't shoved him off of her when she first woke up and instead had been basically petting him.
After all, under any other circumstances, she would never do that.
(and that simple truth doesn't cause him any pain. At all.)
"Are you okay?"
He hasn't even noticed that he's looked away from her (don't want to see the accusation in her eyes) until his gaze is shooting back to her face at her soft, broken words.
She's looking at him like she's...worried about him, even though she's the one who is lying in a bed with bandages all over her, the one whose bleeding body he had to hold together, the one whose blood is still staining the shirt he's wearing right now. Oh, that's what she's looking at. The stains.
(It's not my blood, Casey, it's yours, this is yours.)
His hand is on her face before he has time to tell it that it doesn't belong there. And maybe he's feeling a little lenient since Casey's awake, because instead of snatching it away as punishment, he lets it linger there, palm cautious against her cheek. She doesn't pull away, her eyes fixed on his, and for a second he allows himself to believe that maybe it isn't just him who feels like something new is sprouting inside his chest.
"I'm fine, Casey," he says. "I'm fine."
(Because you are.)
When the nurse tells him later that he and his "girlfriend" are cute together, he doesn't correct her.
Epiphanies don't come often, so he figures when they do, he should take notice.
And the award for the most abrupt ending of a story ever goes to-! This was a story I started writing a loooong time ago. While looking through all of my unfinished stories, I realized that this one was the longest one of all of them, and it seemed a shame to waste all of that writing. This was the only way I could end it without writing an extremely long chaptered story, which I don't have time or motivation to do. So it ends like this...with the hint of a beginning born between them.
Casey makes a full recovery, by the way.