Disclaimer: It came as a shock to my amnesiac brain that I don't own One Tree Hill, but that's what they tell me.
A/N: A Leyton, of course. It takes place after 3x16. pumps fist in the air Yes! I'm getting my mojo back! Greatness.
Her cane skids against the floor erratically, the rubber gently squeaking as it makes contact with the hardwood floor. The room is a fair size, and the woman sitting behind a battered metal desk smiles encouragingly; there's a predatory gleam in her eyes, though, Peyton thinks. The blonde beside her glances again at the unusual shade of her eyes. They have a chameleon-like quality, and he's seen them everything from chocolate to bright green to blue on rare occasions, but never this – never gray before. She falters slightly and his arms are instantly supporting her weight. He ignores the jab to his ribs and an irritated sigh.
Her descent into the chair is anything but graceful. The way the sunlight hits her face gives it a ghostly, otherworldly quality. Moments like this scare him. He is reminded of the almost-loss that hurts him nearly as much as his absolute losses. Lucas sits down next to her and waits uneasily for the reporter to begin.
"Honey, I'm so glad you came in. We were all so worried about you when we heard that you'd been shot. I knew your mother in high school, and it would have been awful to lose you, too." Behind her bland expression, Peyton is wondering if her death wouldn't have made a better story; tugged at a few more heartstrings, maybe.
"So we just… start?" she whispers, looking down at her hands. There is a moment where the older woman wonders if Peyton is a little too fragile to do this interview; but she waves away the thought almost immediately. Fragile is good, after all: it is raw and real and three-dimensional.
"Yes, we do. As soon as you feel like stopping we can take a break," she adds. Momentarily, Peyton lets Lucas reach over and cover her hands. The thin metal bracelet around her wrist pushes into the palm of his hand, and as their eyes meet he tries to tell her that it's okay if she's decided she doesn't want to do this. It's only been two months.
"I'm ready." The reporter shuffles a stack of papers on her desk and then turns on a tape recorder. Peyton looks at it uncomfortably for a moment and then blinks rapidly and looks away.
"Okay. What were you doing when the shooting occurred?"
"I was, uh, walking from the library with my best friend Brooke."
"How did the two of you get separated?" Peyton flinches at the question. She has played that scene over and over in her head and she still wonders… did Brooke mean to leave her behind?
"It was crazy in there. People were running, screaming, pushing… it was almost impossible to fight the current."
"So no one bothered to stop and help you?" Lucas worries that this woman is going to destroy Peyton's already tenuous faith in human nature and questions whether this line of inquiry has any point. For the hundredth time he berates himself for not talking her out of this.
"No one saw me. I was balled up in a corner. No one was looking down or ahead or around them. It was a mob… Brooke could have just as easily been the one lying there." Is this the truth? Would Peyton have run without Brooke's hand placed firmly in hers? The reporter searches her eyes, searching for confusion or fear or any sign of memory; she finds a poker face better suited for a TV broadcast.
"Why did you go to the library? It wasn't a secure location." Peyton's lips twitch. She was prepared for this question.
"It was the closest room, and it was in the opposite direction of all the shattered glass. Also, there's an old exit in one of the back corners of the library. I figured if I made it out someone would hear me calling for help sooner or later. It hurt like hell, and I was bleeding badly. I couldn't just lay there." This is an angle, the reporter thinks: a young girl's battle against insurmountable odds, her survival instincts keeping her calm and saving her life.
"What was running through your mind while you were alone in the library?" Frowning, Peyton stares at the floor. Lucas reaches out and tenderly brushes her hair away from her shoulder.
"A lot of things. It was all so surreal. I was afraid that the gunman would find me or that Brooke was hurt." She sounds too much like a martyr, so she adds, "I was afraid. When it hurt too much to move anymore it all kind of set in." She spares a nervous, bashful look at her hands. "I just wanted someone to hold me and tell me it was all going to be okay."
"And then Lucas came." He feels his chest swell with pride at the delicate, confident smile on her face. God, she's beautiful in this moment.
"Yeah… my knight in shining armor. Lucas is the type of person you'd want with you in a burning building. He's always willing to go out on a limb to help someone else." Not just anyone he thinks, careful to keep his mouth shut.
"You two seem to be very close. He's even here with you now," the reporter points out.
"I've known Luke for two years. We have history." She cringes as soon as the words leave her mouth and promptly sends up a silent prayer to the cosmos, begging that the reporter shows mercy and banishes those last three words to the cutting room floor where they belong. This realization is a knife in the gut. Lucas looks at her unreadable expression and feels the intensity of memories weighing him down.
"You've been seen as a symbol of hope throughout this ordeal. Do you believe that eventually you'll be able to walk without the assistance of a cane?" Her face falls and Lucas's heart breaks for her.
"The doctors aren't ruling anything out. But the way the bullet lodged in my angle joint damaged and ripped a lot of muscle and ligaments and chipped the bone. Join replacement may be an option five years down the road with more medical advances, but right now my best hope if physical therapy. I plan to keep going to sessions regardless of the immediate outcome." The woman's eyes pierce hers.
"If you could tell Jimmy Edwards one thing, what would it be?"
"It's okay to be scared. It's okay to tell someone. I don't think he wanted to hurt anyone," she confesses softly. "He just needed to be heard."
-0-0-0-
"Okay, please get this to the printer," she directs her assistant, pressing the heel of her hand into the small of her back. It's been a tiring day. "They were a sweet couple, don't you think?" Her assistant stares at her oddly.
"You didn't read our feature on the Ravens in November? Lucas Scott is dating Peyton's best friend, Brooke." The reporter snorts in amusement.
"I would hate to be that girl." The assistant doesn't ask which girl she's referring to.
-0-0-0-
"I love you, you know," she whispers. A tear falls from the corner of her eye. The front porch is silent, save for the cool breeze shifting blades of grass and wind chimes. As the porch swing creaks he weaves their fingers together and kisses her forehead. After this, this quiet, level-headed admission of hers, the foundation of their friendship will be destroyed. They won't talk to each other again; not like they used to. Not without his answer, left unspoken for a million reasons.
"I know," he says, closing his eyes, "I know." There's nothing more to be said; after all, she just needed to be heard.